Asphyxia
by Shironette
Summary: As a series of severe panic attacks work away at John's mental and physical health, Sherlock is left to determine whether this is the work of an enemy, or if there is something that John is hiding. AU / Post Reichenbach / Established Johnlock / Slash / Dark themes / COMPLETED Jan. 31 / Second draft to begin Feb. 16, see profile
1. Chapter 1

So I'm new to this whole FanFiction thing but I'm overwhelmed with the urge to write Sherlock so write Sherlock I shall.

I'm super pumped about the next season grah

These chapters I'll try to keep short in the spirit of the original novels which if you have not read them how dare you call yourself a fan

(jk I only read one)

This is a work in progress I'll keep editing it and making it better as time goes on.

Please read and review thanks kiss kiss

* * *

You look a little different than usual, this year. It was Mycroft's annual Christmas party, at his grand house, and half of Scotland Yard was invited. The better half, at least. Lestrade and Sally and Molly were all attending, but I shouldn't expect that would have made you less nervous. Was that even possible for you? Nervousness? Or maybe it was just some kind of digestional issue?

I decided to ask. "Sherlock?" You turned your head from the window but didn't look at me. "Are you alright?"

"Of course." You tapped your thighs and watched the buildings through the glass. The gold ring on your finger reflected the glaze of the London streetlights as the cab sped by.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not _nervous_."

"Well, alright." I adjusted myself in my seat, and glanced the other way.

"I can only imagine what my brother will say," You said, suddenly. The drumming stopped. "Of course he'll try to _insult_ me, somehow."

"Why would he do that?"

"It is Mycroft, after all. Why wouldn't he. I'm engaged to a _man_."

I blinked, a little hurt. "...is that such a bad thing, Sherlock?"

"No." You continued drumming. "But he will present it as such."

"Then tell him not to." I pulled at the collar of my jumper. "He should have some decency."

You didn't say anything else, only looked back out your window and drummed your fingers.

The house (or, rather, _castle_, it looked more like) came into view, tall and well constructed, with flying buttresses and small figures knitted into the stone. I didn't want to think about how much money the building had cost Mycroft, whether in sale or only upkeep.

The cab pulled to the curb, and you quickly paid him before stepping out into the rain. I followed, pulling my grey coat tight around my neck and flipping the collar up against the wind. You came around the car and put your hand on my shoulder, pushing me towards the doorway while I searched my pockets for the invitation.

"Sherlock Holmes?" One of the greeters recognized you.

"Yes. And John Watson." You nodded.

"No need for an invitation, go right in." He opened the door for us.

"Oh- uh- um- okay." I stammered, glancing from you to the greeter and around at the people crowded with us under the red canopy.

"Just come along." You ushered me forward again, with your hand settling on the small of my back. It was a little strange for you to touch me fondly in public, not that I minded it. The greeter asked for our coats, and Sherlock took mine before reaching for his. More strange affections.

"Thank you, sirs. Mycroft is waiting upstairs with the other guests." The man smiled, particularly at you. "Congratulations, on your engagement."

"Even the door-keepers know about it." You whispered under your breath, and sped towards the stairs. I thanked the man and ran after you as fast as my leg would take me.

"Sherlock! Wait, wait for me. I'll get lost in a heartbeat in this monstrous house."

"Hotel."

"Hmm?"

"It was a hotel, of course. At least a small one. He refurnished it. The slimy bastard loves to entertain."

"I never would've guessed." I looked around. "He surely spared no expense. Look at those gold inlays."

"Yes, I've noticed."

We reached the second floor, which was reasonably filled with elaborately-dressed women and smooth-shaven men, prancing around the room with glasses of wine and champagne. Reds and greens were prominent. Holly and mistletoe were strung around the room, and a large pine tree littered with lights stood proudly in the center of the room. Velvet ribbon was draped over the white tablecloths, and food enough to feed a multitude was laid out for easy pickings. My stomach was already growling, and the spiral-cut ham looked like the tastiest I'd ever seen.

"Don't drool on your shirt, it's not very sophisticated of you."

"I wasn't _drooling_." I glared at you, and your icy blue eyes met mine for just a split second.

"I'm glad you could make it, little brother." Mycroft strode towards us, umbrella in hand, flanked by Lestrade and guest. He had a cold expression, though his voice was unusually warm. You immediately straightened and might have leaned away from me a few centimeters. Mycroft reached out to shake your hand, and you took it only hesitantly. "There are gifts waiting for you and your... fiancé in the left wing, if you're interested."

_Fiancé_. Why did he have to say it with so much hostility. "Thank you, Mycroft. I- uh, well I really wasn't expecting a gift."

"I know." He turned to me, placing his hand on my shoulder and kissed my temple. I felt a burn on my cheeks. I hadn't expected that, either.

"Hands off, Mycroft." You bit.

"Oh, please, Sherlock. If dear Watson is going to become part of the Holmes family, he'll have to accustom to the formalities."

"I really don't think it'll be too much hastle..." I coughed and adjusted my collar.

Lestrade was laughing behind Mycroft, coming around him to put his arm over my shoulders. "Good luck with _those_ in-laws, John! You'll have to deal with Holmes the rest of your life, yeah?" His breath stunk of alcohol. But, at least he was in good spirits. I shook him off.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Can our relationship please not be a topic of discussion."

"You don't make that choice now, little brother." Mycroft said to you.

Lestrade's ginger-haired date chimed in. "You two men are engaged?"

"Um, yes." I lifted my hand so that she could see my ring. "Last week, I think it was."

"Sunday, the eighth." You corrected.

"...yes, yes. Sunday."

"How sweet!" The woman cooed. "When is the wedding, if you don't mind me asking?"

"We haven't really discussed it much, yet..."

"March. The second week." I looked at you, a little shocked, but you had a kind of matter-of-fact look about you. "It will be warm."

"In March, Sherlock?"

"Yes. In March."

"Oh, dear, I love Spring weddings! It will definitely be romantic, my congratulations to both of you."

"Thank you, miss." I smiled at her, trying to distract from your noncompliance. "I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Anne Whitefield." She smiled, brushing a curl from her face.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm John Watson." I took her hand gently, then moved back to you. I could feel your eyes heavily, examining me closely, and the rest of the group had noticed it too. The static silence was a little unnerving.

"Help yourself to dine." Mycroft said, moving his umbrella into his other hand.

"Don't mind if I do." I said, jokingly. Lestrade laughed again, but the Holmes brothers still seemed less than pleased. I wondered if I did anything out of sort, but I couldn't think of anything. It must have just been the presence of each other.

"Come then, John." You put your hand on my back again, and I could feel the tension in the group tightening. "We'll be seeing you, Mycroft."

"Enjoy." He smirked at me, then walked back the way he came. Lestrade winked in our direction, then took his guest off, probably for more wine. I hadn't seen Sally or Molly yet, but I was sure they'd be making an entrance soon enough. (And, I'd hoped, without another finely-wrapped gift.)

You interrupted my thoughts as you pushed me toward the dining table. I moved away from you, feeling a little uncomfortable with your hand, as if it were starting to attract people's attention. "Why so short, Sherlock? Mycroft is your brother."

"Don't mind my _brother_." You responded, putting your hand in your pocket and pulling out your cell phone. "You're hungry. I'll sit with you while you eat."

"Won't you eat, too? I haven't seen you touch a bite all afternoon."

"Not hungry in the least." You were texting someone. I briefly wondered who. "Go get us two seats. I'll join you in a minute."

* * *

If you actually read this I love you and please tell me what you thought of the POV it's a little different but I want to know what you think of it.

Next chapter up soon.


	2. Chapter 2

You made it to Chapter 2 applauds

Thanks for putting up with me I love you and I really do want to hear what you have to say.

There's sex in this scene but it isn't very graphic at least according to the things I've read but idk just fair warning.

Enjoy kiss kiss

* * *

The ham was extraordinary. I filled half my plate with the stuff and ate like it was my last meal. You sat beside me and made small talk with the blind old man sitting beside you, not noticing me much at all, but I didn't mind. You looked better than you had in the cab, and I didn't want to upset it. Anne and Lestrade also came, and sat to my right (you were to my left) and Anne brought us two glasses of champagne along with a string of cresent rolls from the next table.

"For the happy couple," She beamed proudly.

As the old man left you talked with Lestrade and asked about the "new cases" in his division. I wasn't all too interested, but Anne kindly struck up a conversation.

She was a nice girl, a very pretty one, too. But, if it wasn't too rude to notice, she looked too young for Lestrade. She reminded me of someone I had dated before, but I doubted that was actually the case. If it was, I had no idea how I let her pass me by. She was gorgeous, completely gorgeous. And her eyes, they were like emeralds. I wondered if Lestrade appreciated her beauty. I surely did.

I guess you noticed the way I looked at Anne. It wasn't that I was any less satisfied with you - not at all. But whenever a pretty woman came around, I guess you got insecure. If you could even get insecure, being Sherlock.

Just as Anne brought up the topic of teas, I felt your hands on my shoulders. "Let's go find those 'gifts' Mycroft mentioned," You said, almost too quiet to hear. Anne somehow picked it up, or at least read his mood, and smiled at us.

"Alright, yes. Sorry, I'll be back. It was nice chatting with you, Anne."

"You too, John." She lifted her glass to her lips.

You pulled me toward the door, your grip on my arm starting to burn. I yanked away as soon as we were out of earshot of Anne and Lestrade.

"Stop that, Sherlock." I rubbed my arm.

"I'm tired of the party." You walked toward the left wing, glancing behind to make sure I was still following. There was a glint in your eye. Something was strange about you again. You seemed almost angry, almost nervous. But why? I didn't know.

"You have that look about you again." I furrowed my eyebrows.

"What look?" You turned away.

"That look. That... worried look."

"I'm not worried." We got into a space of the hallway that was free of people, and you started looking in doors. Study. Kitchen. Another door to the kitchen. Pantry.

"Did Mycroft say what room the gifts were in?" I paused and rubbed my forehead. "I guess he didn't need to, eh. Probably you can tell what room he put them in by looking at the collars of his sleeves or the way he adjusted his tie before he walked."

"That's correct." You thrusted your head into another room, at the head of the hall, and then went inside. I blinked; the room was dark, and you hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. But I followed you, leaving the door open so that I could see a little of what was inside.

You didn't like that. You shut the door.

"Sherlock?!" I exclaimed, thrusting my hands out in front of me. The room was entirely black, aside for the thin stream of light under the door, accenting the fringe of the red carpet. "Sherlock, this isn't funny!"

I felt your hands slide around my waist, and I chirped a little louder than I meant to. Your dark curls pressed against my hear, I could feel your hot breath on my neck. It took me a moment to get my bearings. You rubbed my arms and whispered softly to me. I wish what you had whispered sweet nothings, but they were instead sour somethings.

"The party's dull," You purred. "I'm bored. Entertain me, would you, John."

The way you said John made my knees weak. You must've felt my pulse flutter, because you chuckled and kissed my ear, running your hands over my sides and my stomach.

"Where are we?" I asked, trying to sound as unaffected as possible.

"Mycroft's study." You answered, and my heart dropped into my stomach.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. No."

"Yes. There's a sofa there."

"No. We can't shag in Mycroft's-"

"Mycroft has been egging on me about you since the day we moved into the flat, he deserves to have a little love sweat in his velvet pillows." You pulled me towards the wall, and I felt something brush against my leg. Probably a table. You dropped, and I followed you, falling into your lap. I still couldn't see a bloody thing. But my eyes were starting to adjust, and your rustling movements were (shamefully) starting to arouse me.

"Sherlock, this isn't decent." I tried to grab your coat, but instead grabbed your hair. You made a grunting sound. "People will talk."

"People have already been talking. We're engaged."

"This isn't right. I don't want to. Stop that." I batted his hand. "Stop touching me."

"Why? You seem to be enjoying it." You fondled the front of my pants, and I tried to push you away, but you gripped and I winced. "Just one go, Watson. One go. Then I'll be finished."

"You'll make a mess of his study. Are the gifts even in here?"

"It doesn't matter. Where is your belt."

"Damn, Sherlock! You know that isn't my belt!"

"My apologies."

"If we're going to do this might as well turn the damn light on."

"That's true." You got up, and I tried to collect myself for at least a moment. You flicked the light switch, and the dark red loveseat came in full view, with all its embroidered pillows and intricity. Everything looked expensive, everything looked well-cleaned and polished. I felt guilty already, just for disrupting the pillows on the seat. You stood beside the door, with your scarf draped over your arm and a slight bulge in the front of your pants. I swallowed. You really were going to make me do this. Here. Now. Ugh.

It would only be honest to say that sex was a staple part of our relationship. You had never made love with anyone else, I was your first, and you were, as you said, intrigued by it. Sex, that is. We didn't have sex too often, but when we did, it was intimate. Satisfying. And completely dominated by you. I didn't really mind, though it was different than what I was used to, with the women I dated.

We had never done anything like this before, and it startled me that he would come so forcefully, so carnally. And it was honestly more than a little frightening. But the intense desire in your eyes shut my mouth for the time being. If you wanted it, then perhaps I shouldn't fight you about it. It wasn't really worth it, after all.

You moved back over to the couch, leaning down immediately to kiss me. It was a deep kiss, and in it you laid me on my back across the sofa, moving your hands from my shoulders to my waist and then to my hips. I squirmed a little, but you were focused. You unbuckled my belt and had my pants around my knees before I could stop you.

But something wasn't right. You'd done this kind of thing before, stipping me down before I really ever gave permission, but this time something was wrong. I felt a log in my throat, something lodged in my lungs, a heavy thing weighing on my chest that only intensified when I felt you get closer. I closed my eyes. You were already there, you were ready. I let you start, wrapping my legs around your waist and pulling your chest against mine for some kind of comfort. I hoped the uneasiness would go away.

It didn't.

"Sherlock, okay, please stop." I panted. Your heat and the tightness of my lungs almost made me dizzy.

"I've barely even started." You kissed me, continuing.

"No, please stop, I can't do this..."

"Quiet, John, someone will hear you." You gripped my hips, rocking forward, pressing your face against my neck. You purred. "Mm, John."

"Sherlock!" The weight was becoming too much. I gasped, pulling at your hair. There was a surge of panic, adrenaline suddenly overcoming me. I could no longer breathe. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe.

You had to get off me. I shoved at your chest, pounding, gaping and gasping and throwing my arms at you. You fought me blindly at first, but you soon realized as I had that something was definitely wrong. But the wall behind you began to collapse. My throat tightened as my heart raced even faster. You held my hands to my chest, pinning them there. You were saying something. I struggled to hear you.

"John. Calm down. What's the matter?" You looked over my face, over my chest, frustrated, looking for a wound, for a problem.

I tried to speak, tried to breathe, but my breath was chased away before it even reached my lips. I panicked. Black spots were sprouting in the corners of my eyes. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe. You moved my head so that I could see you. You looked straight into my eyes. You were talking, but I couldn't hear you. I tried to talk, to cry, to scream. But I could only hear the rushing of my own blood, rumbling like horses, and my own faltering breath. I was going to die. I was having a heart attack. I was dying. I was going to die.

You were shouting now, but I couldn't hear you. I couldn't see you. My toes went cold, then my legs, then my arms. My lungs tightened, and died. My heart went numb. Vertigo and blackness swallowed me.

Everything was gone.

* * *

Eh it isn't perfect but I'll keep editing it in hopes it gets better. If you see any errors go ahead and tell me I'll fix them.

Tell me what you think, what you like and what you don't like, it's my quest to try and get better.

Next part up soon


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for reading so far please leave me a review and I will love you

* * *

A violin played mournfully from the room upstairs. I kept my coat and shoes, going slowly up the stairs, careful not to trip in the darkness. I turned into 221B, its door also left open, with tracks of snow through the entry. The windows were left open, and freezing wind blew through the entire house, the curtains filling the living room.

You stood beside the window, dressed in nothing but your bathrobe. The sleeves were tied up around your biceps with belts on both arms. You were playing the violin, a dark tune, a shiving tune, and I could see the ice hanging from the neck of the instrument.

"Come in, John," You yelled, your voice thick, almost sobbing. "Come in, before it's too late."

My throat tightened as you turned, and I could see all the puncture marks in your arms. White liquid seeped out of your wounds, and I felt hot tears on my cheeks, sharp against the frigid cold of the room.

The violin struck a sour chord, and stopped.

* * *

The thick smell of rubbing alcohol and strong tea merged together and greeted me first. An IV was in my arm. My stomach was empty, and rolled painfully, but my head was comfortably numb and flowery. Drugs, I thought. It would explain the unusual softness of the cheap hospital sheets and the dizziness waiting when I opened my eyes.

You were sitting in a chair just a little way from me, drinking tea, staring vacantly at the far wall. Obviously you had noticed me stir, but you made no movement. I examined the room around me. It was only you and I, the other beds were strangely empty. Maybe you had requested that. Maybe it was luck. But it was very quiet, and peaceful for a hospital. Maybe it was the smell of your tea.

"Good morning, Watson." You said, your tenor voice vibrating pleasantly. "How was your sleep."

"Er..." I left my gaze on you, breathing in deeply. "Alright."

"Good." You sipped your tea.

"What's happened, Sherlock. I don't remember anything." I tried to move my arm, but a sharp pain came up from my IV, and I left it there.

"What is the part you do remember."

"Well, Mycroft's study."

"Yes. You passed out."

"Passed out? ...Well, why?"

"I was hoping you would be able to answer that." You set your teacup in its saucer, continuing to stare at the wall.

"I'm in a hospital, aren't I?" I stretched my neck to look around. "What is the doctor's opinion?"

"Oh, he's quite clear on the reason."

"Then what is it?"

You sipped your tea.

"Sherlock?"

"He said it was a sort of 'panic attack'." You answered, now looking at me. Your eyes had some sort of haze over them, as if you were still lost in thought even as you were speaking. "I told him you had no history of anxiety, or of these kind of 'panic attacks'... Though your therapist did diagnose you with PTSD, it was a false diagnosis, and I've already proven that, I believe."

"...so it was an attack, or it wasn't?" I was thoroughly confused.

"I have absolutely no idea."

Molly and Lestrade came in.

"Oh, John, you're awake." Lestrade laughed, but his face was still partially white. "We were hoping to take you home before you did, but either way would fit. How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling fine." I looked up at the machines attatched to my arm, studying the bags, trying to discern what kind of fluids they were giving me. But my head was too cloudy to focus for long. "I want to get off the drugs, though."

"I'll have them bring them down." Lestrade nodded and left the room.

Molly sat beside my bed, and set her hand softly on my arm. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, yes. So am I." I stretched, and looked back to you. "You'll have to bring me back up to speed with what's happened, however. I'm afraid I've lost most of it."

"Gratefully," You replied, with a twang of feeling.

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This chapter's much shorter but sorry so sorry

Next part up soon xx


	4. Chapter 4

You have no idea how happy I was when I saw I actually got reviews hahahaha

Yo as promised I love you

The Christmas minisode was amazing and I nearly died no bullshit.

So here's the next part as promised, have a very merry Christmas!

* * *

Mrs. Hudson cried when she saw me, coming off the cabbie. She ran forward for a hug, right in the middle of the street. I was surprised, she had never done anything like that before. Maybe I looked worse than I thought I did.

"Oh, my dear John," She smiled at me, tears in her eyes. "I'm so, so glad you're home with us."

"Yes, I missed you, Mrs. Hudson." I gave her a smile, and she might've died right there from grief.

"Come inside, dear boy. You need to sit down, get some rest, relax. I've made you some tea, your favorite kind." She went off across the street again, disappearing up into the flat before me.

I sighed and glanced toward you as you pulled your case out of the trunk of the cab. I assumed it was your computer. Or perhaps mine. More likely mine. "Mrs. Hudson seemed excited."

"Yes, she was heartbroken when she'd heard." You closed the cab and stood to the side of me.

"Heard I was in the hospital?"

You didn't answer, stepping quickly into the street. I huffed and followed after you, leaning heavily on my cane. Coming down from the drugs had made walking painful again, and I noticed a slight tremor in my hand. So much improvement, trashed in a second, and an illogical sexual encounter.

I shook my head, furrowing my brow. "Don't play games with me, Sherlock. Tell me what's happening."

"It doesn't matter, John."

"Then just tell me! Straight away! I don't like being in the dark, especially about things conscerning myself."

"John." We had reached the sidewalk, and you turned to stand between me and the door, your hands set firmly on my shoulders. The blue of your irises pierced into my fortitude. "You already know, but you never told me. You never told anyone. Why? Why didn't you tell anyone, John?"

"What do you mean, tell?" I wavered.

"You're depressed."

I blinked. "What the bloody hell are you talking about, Sherlock? I'm not depressed!" Your eyes were stone; disbelieving. "I'm not depressed! Who even told you a thing like that!"

"Your doctor from the hospital."

"Well, I'm a doctor too. I'm not depressed." I pushed him away from me. "I'm not depressed, I'm not anxious, I'm perfectly fine."

"Your blood pressure and body functions indicate a high level of stress and emotional trauma."

"I've been stressed lately, yes. There's been plenty of stress. Our engagement hasn't come free of it, either, you know that. Give me a break, Sherlock. I'm not depressed."

You straightened, your eyes dark.

"Come inside and sit down, John. We'll have a talk."

* * *

We sipped our tea quietly for a few minutes while Mrs. Hudson bustled around. She had obviously done some work to straighten up the flat before I'd arrived. The kitchen was swept and cleaned, the counters wiped down, and your books were standing in a straight line. It also looked freshly vaccuumed, and smelled like detergent. Though she constantly made clear she wasn't our housekeeper, she sure did do a good job at it.

You waited, your legs crossed in your armchair, sipping your tea as calmly as you had this morning.

"I guess you boys would like some peace and quiet, then, wouldn't you." Mrs. Hudson giggled, untying her apron and slinging it over her arm. "I'll leave you be. I'll be downstairs, just a holler away. I'm glad to see you better, John." She smiled at us, backing through the door and shutting it behind her, which was immediately followed by your exasperated sigh.

"Such racket, all night, all morning. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. I have a headache from all the chemicals." You stood up and cracked open the windows, letting the chilly wind blow in.

"Mm." I set my tea down, empty. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was, or how attractive Mrs. Hudson's tea was to a dry throat. "But, sit down, Sherlock. You said you wanted to talk."

"Your doctor diagnosed you with depression." You said, your voice deepening slightly. "He assigned you anxiety medication that will help with-"

"Chronic depression, yes, he told me. But I'm trying to figure how he could've diagnosed me with depression after meeting me consciously once, for only about five minutes, while he unplugged me and gave me my medicines. Did he talk to you?"

"Yes, of course he talked to me." You sat back in your armchair. "I told him what had happened in the study. I also told him about your therapist's diagnosis of PTSD, your psychosomatic pain in your leg, your tremor, the trauma you suffered last summer, and the information of the engagement this year..."

"Trauma? What-..." I quieted. Last summer, when you... had fallen. When you died. Trauma was a nice way of putting it. I wouldn't have disagreed with saying that I was "depressed" during that time. But I had gotten better. I had moved past it. You and I had rebuilt our relationship; we were engaged, for god's sake. Everything had fallen back into place. It was a short spell.

"He seemed almost certain that depression and suppressed anxiety was the answer."

"I think that's a fantasticly grand assumption." I sat back in my chair, dumbfounded. "I didn't have one true conversation with that man and he diagnoses me with depression."

"You had a panic attack, John, and a severe one at that." You leaned forward, setting your elbows on your knees. "You passed out. You couldn't breathe on your own."

"I know what happened, Sherlock, I was the one who lived it, after all." I stood up. "But I'm not depressed, and I'm not taking those damn anxiety pills."

I stomped from the room, towards my own, my face contorted with anger. But I stopped halfway through the doorframe and turned around, marching back into the living room to stand in front of you. You stared at the open palm I held in front of you.

"I'm not taking them, but don't get any ideas. Give them."

You sighed and pulled the bottle out of your pocket, handing it to me.

"I'll show that damn doctor. I'm not depressed. And I'm not some anxiety patient, either." I huffed, going back to my room.

* * *

Please review and I'll love you too

Next part up soon


	5. Chapter 5

Hope you guys all had a very merry Christmas

If you haven't seen the minisode yet go watch it, it's on YouTube and its fantastic

Alright anyway here you go next chapter

* * *

I woke at seven the next morning to a shrill banging coming from the living room. At first I covered my head with a pillow, fighting off the headache that I was sure would come. What the hell could you be doing, with such racket? What kind of _flatmate_ makes that kind of noise so early in the morning? I groaned and pulled myself out of bed, trodding unhappily out the door with my hands cupped over my ears.

You were, quite literally, banging metal with a hammer. _Banging metal with a hammer._ Maybe it was your _goal _to make as much noise as possible. Your metal victim looked like a prison locker. Thicker than an average pool or gym locker, with a large steel lock. You had a hammer tightly clutched in one hand, and a concentrated look on your face. You hit the thing twice in my time between my door and the living room.

"By _god_, what are you doing, Sherlock?" I shouted.

You hardly even looked at me. "Experimenting." You answered, hitting the thing again.

"If you don't stop that the whole neighborhood will be at our necks." I rubbed my forehead. "Remember the air horn?"

"Yes, of course I remember the air horn. Reginald from across the way almost shot you."

"Maybe this time he won't miss. Stop that!"

You paused and looked at me, spinning the hammer in your hand.

"Thank you." I fell into my armchair with an exasperated sigh, rubbing my forehead. "Damn you, you've already given me a headache, and it's not even seven-thirty."

"Apologies." You studied me for a moment, then set the hammer on the floor in front of the bruised locker. "Do you want me to make you some tea? Coffee?"

"Last time you made me a drink you drugged me for an experiment," I glared at you.

You made a face. "What? The Baskerville case was ages ago, I've made you tea since then."

"You're right, you have. And you spiked it with that whatever kind of 'truthtelling serum' you wanted to test. I nearly passed out in the middle of the road." I growled and stood. "I'll make my own tea, thank you."

"I'll promise not to add anything this time." You said quickly.

"I don't trust you. I'll make it."

"You should sit down, you have a headache."

"It's your fault I _have_ the headache! Leave me alone." I pushed you out of the way and went into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle off the stove and filling it with water from the tap. You took a seat at the table for a few seconds, drumming your fingers against the table, as you had in the cab the other day. Then you got up and went through the cabinets to my right.

"You need to take your medicine, remember. Every morning, doctor's orders."

"I'm not taking that. I don't need it. I already said I don't have depression." I turned on the stove and set down the kettle.

"Maybe you should, just for a little while, to see if it will help."

"There's nothing that needs to be helped, Sherlock! I'm not-" My hand brushed the hot burner and I yelped, shoving myself away and into the side of the table. You flinched and grabbed my shoulders before I fell over.

"Are you alright?" You asked, glancing over me.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just got a little close to the flame, that's all." I glanced at my wrist. It was a little red, but not too badly burned. I reached for the tap and turned on the cold water, putting my hand under it. You watched me the whole time, your eyes narrowed slightly. I wasn't sure what kind of look it was. "But as I was saying. I'm not sad. I'm quite fine."

"If you say so." You took a seat again, drumming your fingers.

"What is that tune, Sherlock?" I asked.

"What?"

"That tune you're drumming."

"Oh, it's not anything important." You put your hands under the table.

"...ah. Alright." The teacup whistled, striking a fresh pain through my head before I quickly pulled if off. "Do you want a cup, Sherlock?"

"If you don't mind." You cleared your throat. "If you want we could just sit here and... talk. If you want."

I turned around to stare at you, the kettle still in my hand. Your expression was still strange, distorted, as if you were unsure. Was unsurity even possible for you?

"Alright, who put you up to that one?"

"Your therapist. Your doctor. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade." Your eyes narrowed slightly, studying my reaction.

"I don't have anything to get off my chest, Sherlock, if that's what you're getting at." I poured two cups, and reached for the sugar in the upper cabinet, moving a jar of brown jelly-like substance to get to it. I wasn't going to ask what the substance was. "If I did, I would go back to my therapist."

"That's what she said you'd say." You folded your hands together on the tabletop. "She said that when you two were having meetings, you were clinically depressed. After you moved back into 221B, you stopped making visits. You phoned her to let her know that you had been feeling better and thanked her for her time. But she told me you could still be at risk."

"At risk for what?" I set his cup in front of him.

"Relapse, John. Emotional meltdowns. Severe anxiety. Suicide."

The last word hit me physically, a twist of pain in my chest. You obviously noticed, but didn't say anything. I inhaled the smell of the tea and took a small sip, regaining my composure.

"I feel fine."

You took your cup and leaned back in your chair, raising it to your lips without breaking eye contact with me.

"If you didn't, would you tell me."

"Yes, of course."

"Even if it was embarrassing or humiliating for you."

"Yes."

"Even if it were painful, even if you didn't think I would care or I wouldn't understand. Even if you felt like it would consume you if you spoke of it. Even if you were unable to think, even if it was impossible to bear, even if you felt like it would never get better or you felt like it were useless to even mention. Would you still tell me, John."

I swallowed, looking into my tea. "You're making me nervous."

"Would you tell me."

"Yes, Sherlock." I set the cup down. "Yes."

"Good." You raised the tea to your lips.

I pushed away from the table, slowly standing to my feet and taking my cup.

"John?"

"I'm going to my room, Sherlock. Please don't bother me until I come out again." I went back towards the door.

"I'd rather if you would stay, John. You shouldn't be alone for long periods-"

"Don't say it. I'm going to change my clothes. Don't bother me. Please." I closed the door quietly behind me.

* * *

Thanks for reading, please leave me a review and tell me what you think kiss

Next part up soon


	6. Chapter 6

This is an odd time to be updating but screw society

Sorry the chapter's a little on the somber side fair warning

Read and enjoy

* * *

My knees felt weak. I locked my door and set my teacup down, sitting on the edge of my bed. You had scared me, very much so. Relapse? I hadn't even considered it before. As a doctor I had studied it, the likelihood of depression patients to relapse when triggered by a life event or a tragedy. But it hadn't come to mind. After the fall, yes, I was depressed. Textbook depressed. I was on medication, even suicide watch for a few weeks. I wasn't going to try to argue against that. I had depression on my record.

After you came back, though, after you revealed that you _weren't_ dead, I had gotten better. I had to punch you a few times first, but I got better. I stopped going to see my therapist, I wasn't constantly sad, I was healthy. You and I were re-founded, we started solving crimes again just like we used to. Things went back to normal (relatively speaking) and I was happy.

Then there was the topic of our engagement. I guess you could say it was a shock to everyone, including ourselves. Relations between us had gotten more intense after you came back, more intimate, as expected when your best friend has been dead for over a year and then suddenly reappears. We were never officially _together_ before we were engaged. We had sex, once. We got in an argument, and I threatened to leave the flat; I said that you were using me and that you wouldn't ever want me more than a flat-mate or a lab rat. You proved me wrong and told me that you wanted to marry me. Not a very romantic setting, but you're not all that romantic. I was sure, though, that I loved you. So I said I would marry you.

Since then there had been a lot of stress on me, yes. What would my parents say? What would Lestrade and Molly and Sally think? What about Mycroft? Would you be the spouse I wanted? Would I be the spouse _you_ wanted? What about our future? But I assumed that the joy of the engagement itself outweighed the worries. Maybe I was wrong.

I sighed shakily, crawling under my blankets and pulling them around my shoulders. Thinking about this was making my chest hurt, and I didn't like it. I closed my eyes and focused on the smell of my tea, wafting up from my bedside table.

_Maybe I _should_ take the medication,_ I thought to myself.

No, no. I didn't need that damned stuff. I had read the label, they were the same meds they had given me the first time, when I was on suicide watch. I hated it. It made me dizzy and disoriented, not to mention murdering any appetite I hoped to have that quarter-year. I hated every day I was on it, I hated admitting that I was on anxiety medication, and I hated having to explain why. The best part of it was the day I was able to stop taking it. I wouldn't express any good qualities of it to my therapist or doctor, though we both knew it ended up helping, I still hated it to my very core.

I opened the drawer of my bedside table and reached in, pulling out the small bottle and glaring at it. I set it on top of the table and looked at it for a long time.

If I just took it for a little while, enough to prove to the doctor and the therapist that I wasn't depressed, that would be fine, right?

Ugh, but it was awful. And taking anti-depressants over Christmas had to be the saddest thing I could have thought up.

But the holidays were probably the most likely part of the year for a depression relapse, weren't they? If I didn't take them, could I really be at risk for all those things you said?

When I got off suicide watch, I swore to myself that I would get better. I swore that I wouldn't let myself get to that same low I had in August. I swore that I would keep living, that I would be strong, that one suicide was enough for Baker Street. I never wanted to be that way again. I never wanted to feel that same emptiness, the same sadness, the same loneliness. And now that you were there, sitting there in front of me, telling me that the same things could be happening... I was scared.

My tears were welling up as I unscrewed the top of the bottle, knocking two pills into my hand carefully, and lifting up the teacup. They were more bitter than I remembered, but I swallowed them both, hot waves of dread washing over me immediately. I re-tightened the bottle and set it inside my drawer. Curling up in bed, I gripped my pillow tightly.

I wasn't going to let it happen again. I wasn't.

* * *

In a half-dream state, I heard you come into my room. Quietly you came towards me, sitting beside my hip on the edge of my bed. You watched as I slept, silent, with a sad sort of look on your face. I turned and gazed at you, my eyes still clouded with sleep, though I could tell by the light in the windows it must have been afternoon. You reached down and smoothed my hair from my eyes.

"You took the pills." You whispered. "Good, John."

"Only because I knew you'd pitch a fit with the doc," I slurred, yawning. "Such damn awful side-effects."

"He said it would make you sleepy. It's alright, just rest. You need it." You stood up. I realized then that you were wearing your full coat and scarf.

"You really think you've got this whole thing figured out, don't you." I stretched and pulled on my pillow. "Where are you going...?"

"Mycroft's." You looked down to give me a look, but I was too tired to register which one it was. "Mrs. Hudson is upstairs. For now, sleep off the medicine."

"Yessir."

"I'll be back, John." You patted my shoulder. I nodded into my pillow and closed my eyes, falling back into sleepy bliss. But just before I heard you step out, you eased open the drawer of my bedside table. I could only assume you were reaching for my gun.

* * *

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Next part up soon


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks you guys for all the reviews and the follows! I'm glad you like this ah

The release of the new season is getting close and I'm considering going to London for a week just to watch it live who's with me

Hope you enjoy this next part, leave me more love notes a.k.a. reviews and I'll have the next part up for you in no time

* * *

The sound of the door opening shook me from my sleepy daze, laying on my back in the doctor's office. He seemed not to notice, flipping through the pages on his clipboard as I groaned my way up into a sitting position, rubbing my forehead a little to wake myself up. He took a seat across from me, crossing his legs casually. "All the tests came back negative. No illness, no trace of poison or drug."

"None at all?" I stifled a yawn.

"None at all." He tore off a few pages and handed them to me." You're looking very healthy, on the physical side. Beside the bought of fatigue you're obviously feeling."

"But that's from the pills, of course. The, er, meds." I glanced over the page, and set it beside me.

"Yes. The side effects should only last a few days, then you should be feeling quite normal. If they last longer than a week, give me a call, alright."

"Alright. But, ah." I stratched the collar of my neck. "Doctor, I really don't want to be on this medication. I think your diagnosis of depression is an inaccurate one. I wasn't feeling any sadness or anxiety before the incident. It might have just been a result of increased stress."

"Perhaps it was. But we can't be sure. Take the medicine I've prescribed until it's gone. Then you can come back in, I'll assess you, and we'll talk about where to go from there. Until then, I will greatly encourage for you to schedule a session with your therapist as soon as possible. I'll let you know now that she and I will be in continuous contact to determine how to handle your health."

"Do you really think that's necessary?"

"Yes, I do, Dr. Watson." The doctor leaned forward onto his knees. "A doctor's first priority is his patient. And if I think that you are a suicide risk, you will be treated as one."

I pursed my lips, nodding submissively.

* * *

You were waiting for me just inside the entrance, your coat pulled tightly around yourself, a few stay snowflakes in your dark curls. You saw me before I saw you, and kindly handed me my cane. "I've brought a cab," You said, and I took the cane. "It's snowing something harsh."

"I can see that." I glanced through the glass door at the swirls of thick snow.

"How was your appointment."

I thrust the doctor's note into your hand as I buttoned up my coat to the neck.

"You took all the tests I asked, then."

"Yes, yes, all of them. But they were all negative."

"Then we can start eliminating those possibilities. Though some of these might have already been extreted in the time it took to take these tests." You scanned over the page.

"Fantastic." I flipped up the collar of my coat. "How was Mycroft?"

"Quite fine. Worried about you." You folded up the page and put it inside your coat.

"Did you get the gifts?"

"Damn, no, I forgot. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, it's fine." I patted his shoulder and stepped towards the door. "Is that the cab there?"

"Yes."

You stepped around me and opened the door, opening the room up to the sharp bite of the cold. A particularly angry gust of wind blew inside, and you reached out to put a hand on my shoulder and guide me toward the cab. I had trouble opening the door, but you helped. You opened it for me, and climbed in after, kicking the snow off your shoes and shutting the door tightly.

"221 Baker," I told the cabbie, and he pulled into the road, starting away from St. Bartholomew's.

"I went through the kitchen at Mycroft's, John. There were no suspicious items or chemicals." You flipped open your mobile phone. "No signs of foul play. I also looked through the list of items served. No suspicious items. The chefs and waiters were all hired honestly and worked honestly. Everything Mycroft served was clean. And I'm sure if there was something amiss, he would've been the first to realize, beforehand."

"I never suspected Mycroft," I said, folding my arms and shivering slightly. "Did you check the drink, also?"

"Yes. The wine had been stored in a cellar in the basement of Mycroft's estate, removed as needed by the party guests. Believe me when I say it was well preserved."

"So, then, there's no chance at all I was drugged."

"I didn't say no chance, but there is a very low probability." You saw my expression. "I looked in every inch of that kitchen, John. You didn't happen to consume anything from outside Mycroft's kitchen, did you? No edible gift or suspicious drink?"

"The only drink I had was Anne's champagne," I answered, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"...Anne?"

"Yes, Anne. Lestrade's guest. Red hair, green eyes, freckled nose. You met her. She congratulated us on our engagement. Brought us champagne."

"Yes, yes, yes, I remember her now. That could have been it, that very likely, very likely could've been it." You started tapping into your phone. "I'm going to send a text right now. I'm going to have a talk with that Anne character."

"No. Not by yourself, Sherlock." I put my hand on your arm. "She's a sweet girl. I don't want you upsetting her."

"I won't upset her."

I stared at you, and you met my eyes after a few moments.

"At least let me go with you."

"Fine."

With a sigh, I leaned my head back against the headrest of the cab.

"What did the doctor say?"

"You read the paper, didn't you."

"Briefly. Your therapist said that I should try to establish open communication. So you should tell me yourself."

I turned my head toward the window and watched the snow.

"John?"

"He said I needed to stay on the medication, until it was finished, and then I would go in again and get assessed. If nothing bad happens in that time, maybe he'll take me off. But he made no promises. He spoke to me like I was some kind of charity case. These damn pills are putting me completely out of it. I hate this, Sherlock." I angrily kicked the back of the cabbie's chair. "...My apologies, sir. Ahem. Very sorry."

"No worries." The cabbie answered.

"I'm sorry it's uncomfortable for you, John." You said, a hint of a growl in your voice.

"No, you're not." I snapped, keeping my face to the window. "Don't lie to me. You're glad they're making me do this."

"I want you to get better."

"I was better!" I shouted at you. "You're making me worse!"

Your face froze, and you turned to face the front of the cab, then your own window. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, and we were silent the rest of the ride.

* * *

Next part up soon


	8. Chapter 8

Another late-night story update yay go me

This one is a little longer than the average I believe

Warning, this part deals with orthodox Catholic ideas on homosexuality (pretty much homophobia). These aren't my views, just so we're clear. But idk if anyone will have a problem with that so let's just get this whole thing cleared up from the start ok? ok

Enjoy enjoy

* * *

I closed the door on the snow, sighing with relief in the warm fortress of the flat. Your coat and scarf were hung beside the door, telling me you were in. Your shoes, still a little snowy, were set below, and I kicked mine off beside them before unbuttoning my coat. The snow hadn't stopped since yesterday, piling up thick on the roads and making it nearly impossible to get anywhere. I was lucky I had made it to my therapy appointment that morning.

"You've gotten a parcel, John, I left it on the stair," You shouted into the hallway.

"I see it, thanks." I reached for the small brown box and shook it a little, examining the packaging and tag. My parents' address? Perhaps a Christmas gift? How nice of them. I hung my coat and trodded upstairs.

"Got it in this morning. Had to sign." You announced, typing away at your (no, my) computer. "From your parents. A book, expensive one. Perhaps a textbook or some kind of limited edition. I'm thinking hardcover with leather."

"Yes, thank you for the demonstration, show-off." I set the package on the kitchen table and opened the cabinet, looking to heat water for tea to warm my hands. "It's frigid outside this morning."

"Definitely. That's why I chose to stay here." You shot me a smug smile, and continued typing.

"I doubt the snow affected your plans too greatly." I set the kettle on the stove. "Why are you using my computer?"

"Mine was in the kitchen."

I glanced at the table, and at the laptop computer sitting beside my parcel, then to you, seated comfortably at the desk four yards away. You never ceased to baffle me with your laziness at times. You would put hours, days, weeks of work into experiments that seemed useless, yet you wouldn't stand and walk across a room to pick up and use your own computer. Then again, I had given up trying to understand you.

"How was your, uh." You paused your typing. "Appointment."

"It was fine, it went fine." I rubbed my hands together.

"Good." You continue. "What did you two discuss."

"The usual stuff," I answered. "How I had been feeling, how had I been sleeping, had I been updating my blog, how had I been using my time."

"Do you feel any better?"

"A little less stressed, yes. She was kind. I do love her, as a friend. She's a good therapist. Listens. I could get used to that, someone actually listening when I talk." I turned to fix the kettle, and heard a slight pause in your tapping, but it was brief. "She said to give you her congratulations."

"Yes, yes, she already said as much, in the hospital."

"Ah. Alright."

"Have you opened the parcel yet?"

"Well, no, I was just going to make tea. My hands are about frozen solid."

"Open it. I want to know if I was right."

"You're always right, Sherlock," I sighed, and reached for a kitchen knife. I cut the packing tape on the top of the box, opening the top and peering inside. The contents looked somewhat like a book, but it was wrapped in brown packing paper. I pulled it out and weighed it. "Definitely a book."

You turned in your chair to watch as I tore the paper away.

"A Bible," I exclaimed, looking carefully at the leather cover and the ornate cross cut into the front. I couldn't help but raise it to my nose. The smell of fresh leather and new printing wafted up. "It's lovely."

"I was right on all counts." You turned back to the computer screen.

"Hmm." I set the Bible down to pour myself my tea.

"What is that murmur for." You asked.

"Oh, nothing." I sniffed at the tea and chuckled. "My parents. They're such interesting people."

"What do you mean?"

"They go through phases of religious fervor ever so often." I picked up the Bible with my free hand and studied it. "Get really serious about it for a little while, then it tapers off and they tend to ignore it until their next fever shows up."

"Typical of most religious people," You added.

"Yes, I guess so. They never mentioned it much when I was a child. But it seems like once I left the house they got much more serious about all the 'Catholic' business."

"Are they orthodox Catholics?"

"Yes." I sipped my tea. "I thought that they would be outraged when Harry came out, but they surprisingly withheld their discomforts and blessed them."

"That's good. Not quite as hard-nosed as other Catholics." You were obviously more interested in the computer screen than you were with our conversation, but I didn't mind it much.

"I guess so." I put the Bible under my arm. "Did you get the paper this morning?"

"Armchair."

"Thanks." I walked over to your chair and took the paper off the arm, slipping it under my arm along with the Bible. "I'll be in the other room. Don't want to bother you."

"That's probably for the best."

I pursed my lips, then turned on my heel and strode off toward the bedroom, tossing the paper and the Bible onto the cover of my bed. I set my cup down so that I could pull off my wet socks and gloves. I had been a little worried that my parents wouldn't accept my relationship with you, but they had sent us a gift, hadn't they? Obviously I had just been overreacting again. I looked at the Bible with a little bit of a smile. I had nothing to worry about.

The corner of an envelope stuck out of one of the pages near the end of the book. I furrowed my eyebrows, tossing a sock into the laundry hamper before reaching for the little white corner. I pulled the letter out of the book and flipped it over. There was a word, "John", written on the front in my mother's handwriting.

* * *

You didn't notice when I came back into the room. I stood at the mouth of the hall, too weak to take another step. My eyes were blurred, and I stood there for a few moments, just watching you in silence while I found my voice.

"Sherlock..." I croaked.

"What is it, John. I'm working."

"Could you give me a moment... please."

"What is-" You looked up at me and froze, your clear blue eyes fixed on my bloodshot ones. "-the matter, John?"

I raised my hand, the letter set between my fingers. "I got a letter."

"Well, what does it say?"

"...erm, well, it's from my parents..."

You blinked and looked back down to your computer screen.

"What does it say."

"I don't really..." I cleared my throat. "Well, I don't really know how to put it into words..."

"It already is in words, isn't it. Read it to me." You said, still staring at your computer screen.

My throat went dry, but I still looked down at the page, unfolding it slowly and reading the words through, mournfully, once more before I opened my mouth.

"Dearest John," I began. "We would like to begin this letter by reminding you how much we love you and that, as your parents, we are responsible to always do what we believe will be best for you. Recently we have recieved word of your engagement to your flatmate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and will respond by kindly informing you that we will not in any way bless the marriage of you and Mr. Holmes. As members of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, we believe that homosexuality is an abominable sin, punishable by an eternity in Hell. For this reason, we will not accept your sinful relationship with Mr. Holmes, or with any man. We will always continue to love you, and we will pray for you continually, that your soul will be saved from the depth of your sin. But until you repent of your homosexuality, we wish to have no further contact with you or your spouse. God bless you, John, and may your heart be open to His grace. Signed, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Watson."

I let my hand fall slowly beside my leg, tears flowing freely now, streaming down my cheeks. You looked struck, your eyes wide and skin pale.

"They're practically disowning me, Sherlock." I whispered, my voice shuddering. "My own parents."

"John." You stood from your chair, taking a step toward me.

I pressed my back against the wall of the hallway, sliding down to the floor with a tired thump.

"My own parents." I brought my knees to my chest, leaning my forehead against them.

You knelt beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. You didn't quite know what to say, and it was discouraging. "John. I'm so sorry, John." You slowly pried the parchment from my fingers, setting it on the floor. I brought in a long breath of air.

"What is this, Sherlock. What is this. Is this what I deserve? To be abandoned like this?" I wrapped my arms around my legs, tightly, crushing my hands into fists. "Is this what I deserve?"

"No, John. No." You pressed beside me, your back against the wall, and wrapped your arm around my shoulders.

"Then why..." I choked back a sob, but it remained in the pit of my stomach, churning. "Why, Sherlock. Are they right? Am I abominable?"

"No, John, of course not. Don't-"

"Oh, God, oh, God, no." I covered my face, my lungs heavy with surpressed tears. "No, no. I'm so - oh, God, fuck - fuck it, Sherlock. I'm worthless, aren't I?"

"No, John. Don't talk that way. Look at me." You took my chin under your hand, and pulled it to look you in the eye. Your eyes were still clear, blue, ice cold, while mine were puffy and bloodshot, ugly and empty and raw.

I reached for you, and you came. You turned so that I could grasp you, and you held me close, rubbing my back slowly while I wept into the collar of your shirt. You pulled me into your lap and cradled me, just like you had all those months ago. You set your head against mine, your dark curls flush with my blonde, your paleness cold against my sun-scarred skin.

You noticed that I was fading before I did. My chest got heavy, overwhelmed with an aching sadness that spread like fire through my limbs. I tensed against him, but he smoothed my hair and whispered into my ear to help me calm down.

"D-don't tell him," I shuddered, clinging to his shirt with all the energy I had left. "Please, Sherlock, d-don't tell the doctor..."

"I won't." You kissed my forehead, sending ripples of sound through my quieting mind, swallowed into the emptiness of sleep.

* * *

This chapter made me kind of sad tbh but it needed to be done

Next part up soon


	9. Chapter 9

Hey thanks for all the reviews and the follows, they make my day legitimately

I'm already at chapter nine woah this thing has been flying by

Thanks for sticking with me I hope you enjoy

* * *

This time it was bright. You were sitting in your armchair, your head leaned back, warm sunlight dancing off the pale skin at your throat and collar. The windows were open, letting the breeze blow in, bringing sweet scents of sugar and cream, summer and flowers and comforting thoughts. Your eyes were closed, as if you were drinking in the weather, meditating with the soft hum of the sunlight.

I stood in the hall, leaned against the doorframe, watching you quietly. I saw the apple of your throat bob as you swallowed. Two glass bottles of milk stood beside your arm.

You turned to look at me.

"Such a child." You smiled, and it radiated onto my own face. "Look at your face."

"You're beautiful." I sighed, setting my head against the frame.

"Am I?"

Slowly you stood, letting the upper part of your shirt fall open around your neck. You stepped forward and cupped my cheek, your thumb caressing my skin.

"Don't leave me, John." You whispered. "Don't leave me."

* * *

I stirred, my face wet with fresh tears and chest sore from crying. We were in your bed, coccooned within your blankets, with my head cushioned against your arm. You gently ran your fingers across my back, comforting me; the sweet vibration of your voice in your chest was soothing.

"Don't cry, John, they're just dreams."

Slowly, roughly, I grabbed the fabric of your shirt, twisting it around my fingers, hand trembling.

* * *

We slept until the windows were light.

* * *

You gently eased me off your chest, but as I woke I fought back, wrapping my arms around your waist and dragging you flush against me.

"John..." You whispered, putting your arms on either side of me. "I have a case, John. Lestrade needs me at Bart's."

"Please don't go, Sherlock." I cried, my entire body shaking now. My throat tightened with panic. "Please don't. Please."

You massaged my sides until my arms loosened, and then swiftly escaped from them, moving away from the bed. I grabbed the blankets and pulled them around my shoulders, the new cold making me shiver. Your sheets smelled like you, and I breathed it in.

* * *

Sleep came again, heavily.

* * *

"John, are you awake?"

You stepped into the bedroom, the light from the hallway striking a hole in the darkness. The curtains were drawn, blocking out any amount of light that may have come from the street. The lamp beside me was on, dim, but just light enough for me to be able to read the paper. I glanced lazily at him, and folded the pages.

"For a while now." I sighed, setting the paper beside my knee.

"It's nearly seven." You opened the door wide, your long coat casting a ghastly shadow.

"I'm aware of that."

"It can't be good for your health to sit in the dark for most the day." You flipped the light, and I squeezed my eyes shut until they were adjusted.

"It is good for my health to _relax_," I countered.

"Well you don't have to do that shut up in your room. Come and sit with me."

I groaned, but complied.

"Do you want tea? Biscuits?" You prodded, leading me into the living room and striking up a fire. "You must be famished."

"I'm not hungry at all," I answered, moving toward the window to look out onto the streets. Snow had piled up nearly a foot tall on the curbs, and as we spoke a plow was working up and down our road. The sidewalk was smashed in with footprints, a wall separating it from the road. The sky was thick with snowclouds, but at the moment nothing was falling.

You watched me from beside the fire. "You should still eat something."

"No." I stepped back and took a seat in my favored armchair. "I doubt I could stomach anything."

"Have you been sick?" You knelt down and pressed a hand to my forehead. I pushed it away.

"No, no. I have no appetite."

"At least let me make you tea."

"I've had my fill of tea the last few days." I started to unfold my paper, but you pulled it down and stuck your head above it.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes! Now stop bothering me. _Jesus_." I yanked my paper from you.

"You can't be angry at me for taking precautions," You said, straightening.

"I can, and I am. Don't nag me, it isn't any kind of _positive_ reinforcement for your cause." I busied myself with the page, but wasn't very interested in it.

You mumbled something and disappeared into the kitchen, bringing a sharp clanking and clicking sound with you. I glanced around my shoulder. You were taking items off the table and stuffing them quickly into the cabinets. Cleaning? Since when does the great Sherlock Holmes _clean_?

"Mycroft is due here any minute." Well, then, there was my answer. "Do a favor for me, John, and don't sound so... _downcast_ when you speak. I would rather my brother not put in a negative word to your doctor after his visit. And don't mention the letter from your parents while he's here. Alright?"

"Is he here on business, Sherlock, or only so that you can demonstrate my health."

"A little of both." You came around the chair, a damp cloth in your hand, and gently teased my forehead with it.

"The hell?" I batted him away. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to bring some color back into your face. Have you taken your medicine?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Try to mention that."

"I'm not putting on a show for him, Sherlock." I sighed.

You huffed, spinning quickly to look out the window. "He's turning the corner, be friendly. Do you have your cane? Oh, forget the cane. Act normal."

Twirling, you tossed the rag across the room and into the kitchen sink and grabbed the violin case from beneath the desk, setting it against your chair while you slapped it open. You gingerly removed the instrument and tucked it beneath your chin, holding the bow and running it along the strings to check its tune. Beginning in the mid-part of some song, you began to play just a few moments before I heard the car outside, and the swift knock on the door.

"Come in, Mycroft," You shouted.

The door opened and shut, the sound of Mycroft kicking the snow off his shoes echoing up the stairway.

"Should I leave my coat here, then?" Mycroft called up.

"That would be fine, yes." I answered.

He came up the stairs, his umbrella in-hand.. His small eyes flashed around the flat, and landed on me. "Hello, John. It's good to see you again. How have you been?"

"Ah, I've been better. But thank you." I stood up to shake his hand, but he only looked disdainfully at me, and I sat back down.

"I've brought you your gift." He produced a small, wrapped package, and handed it to me. "I figured it would be better to give it to you personally, rather than trust my brother's less-than-ample short-term memory. Tell me, Sherlock, when did you remember that you had invited me? Ten minutes ago? Five?"

"I _have_ known," You defended.

"Ah, yes, _have_ known, alright. Then was it traffic that held you up? Obvious by the way your kitchen cabinets are creaking for their extra weight, and the way you hastily cleared everything off your table and counters, yet didn't think to remove the stains of cocoa beans, you cleaned in a hurry. Hmm, interesting. Or perhaps the proof of your forgetfulness is in the fresh flame in the fireplace, sloppily made to give the impression of an old fire - did you really think that kind of trick could fool me? - and, more simply, the fact that you stand with your violin in-hand, still dressed in your coat and scarf." Mycroft took your seat. "Don't treat me as a fool, Shirley."

"Don't call me Shirley." You grumbled, putting your violin away.

"John." Mycroft cocked his head toward me, and I lowed the paper. "Has Sherlock been looking after you?"

"Yes, he has, Mycroft. He's been very helpful." I lifted the paper again, but he stuck out his umbrella and used the tip to tear it from my hands and onto the floor.

"Is that the truth, or is that what he told you to say."

You stood between us.

"Don't hastle him, Mycroft." You snapped.

"I doubt my questions mean all too much to John," He responded, a smug look in his eye. "At least I've paid him some bit of attention this afternoon. How long has he been here, by himself?"

"Don't accuse me of neglect you know I haven't committed."

"Let's let John attest for that."

"I don't want to be any part of your little squirmishes." I huffed.

"You should have thought of that before you agreed to marry into the family."

"I'm not doing this tonight, _children_." I glared at Mycroft and then at you, collecting my paper from the floor. "Leave me out of whatever business you have. And don't disturb the neighbors with racket, either. It's getting late." I nodded and took my leave, going back down the hall and into the bedroom.

As I unfolded my paper for the fourth (or perhaps fifth) time that evening, I couldn't help but notice the silence still hanging in the other room.

I heard your dark tenor through the thin walls.

"He will get better, Mycroft. You haven't given him enough time."

"I do not have time to give him, _little brother_."

Your voices then got quieter, as if the two squabbling siblings somehow sensed my presence in the walls.

* * *

Please leave me a review and tell me what you think

Next part up soon


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks you guys for keeping up with this and reviewing and reading and all those wonderful things

And, for my reviewers, if want me to check out something Sherlockian of yours, shoot me a PM. I'd be glad to share the reviewing love (and I'm looking for new things to read so hit me up)

Enjoy enjoy

* * *

The weather had let up by the next day, with the clouds having passed and bright sunlight starting to melt the thick snow. Large amounts of mud and slush had found its way into the road, turning it all a nasty brown color. Cars and taxis sped by, making it a dangerous game to walk down the street without being hit in the face with a wave of ice cold dirt water.

We somehow made it to the designated café, however, without getting drenched. Your lower half had gotten some passing sprinkles but not much beside that. I opened the door to the restauraunt and let you step in before me.

"A few minutes early, I believe." I said, stumbling in behind you. "No sign of Lestrade."

"Perhaps that's a good thing." You spotted a table near the back and moved toward it, already stripping your coat and scarf. Only a handful of people were around, most seated near the front. One young woman with a small child, sharing a lunch. A couple on a date. One elderly man with a service dog. Three middle-aged women giggling and gossiping at a table near the counter. You studied all of them, while I took my time in sitting down.

"I'm not hungry today, Sherlock, do you want to split?" I scanned over the menu, leaning my cane against the inside of my seat.

"Split?" You turned around. "Split, split. Yes, splitting would be best. I'm not hungry either. How about a wrap?" You turned back.

"...wrap. Eh, yes, sure. If that's what you want. Tuna, chicken, ham...?

"I'm in the mood for chicken."

"Chicken it is, then." I pursed my lips, setting the menu down and looking up at the back of your head. "What in the world are you looking for."

"Anything of importance." You straightened then, looking down at the café table with horror. You began to rearrange the condiments and clean off the surface of the table with the stash of napkins left at the head. "Filthy. Who chose this place, anyway."

"I believe _you_ did."

A blonde waitress came around from behind the counter, a bright smile on her face. "Good morning, sirs. My name's Reenie, and I'll be your waitress today." She set a few cork coasters on the table. "Is there anything I can get you to start you off? A drink, perhaps?"

"Coffee? Decaf, black." I picked up a coaster and twirled it between my fingers.

She wrote it on her little pad. "Very good. And for you, s-"

"I'll have a spray bottle of bleach cleaner." You said, still scrubbing. "Perhaps a few paper towels as well."

She hesitated. "...um, sir?"

"You do this for a living, don't you? Do I really need to say please?" You huffed.

"...uh, well, uh. I'll see what I can do." The waitress looked terribly distressed as she disappeared behind the counter.

"This is why we can't go nice places, Sherlock," I sighed.

"Nonsense. I'm only doing what the busboy should have done a week ago. This place is revolting."

You grabbed the menu and looked at it.

"Is there anything with tuna here?"

"I thought you said you wanted chicken."

"Well I've changed my mind. The tuna salad looks good. Do you want to split?"

I put my head in my hands.

The waitress came back with a spray bottle of table cleaner tucked under her arm. She set my coffee down and then handed the bottle cleaner and towels to you. "Here you are, sirs. And please be careful with that cleaner. We would rather not have any bleach spilled."

"I'll be careful." You nodded, tearing off a few sheets of towel and proceeding to scrub the surface of the table. I curled my nose at the harsh scent.

"...um, if the table is dirty, I could very easily show you to a-"

"No, no, that's alright, Sherlock's got it handled." I smiled and motioned to my menu. "We're ready to order, ah, we'll have the tuna salad, to share..."

"What happened to your chicken wrap?" You glanced up at me, and we exchanged stares.

"Chicken wrap and tuna salad, then? I'll put those in right away." She scribbled the orders and scurried off faster than a dog on a scent.

I folded my arms over my chest. "Explain yourself."

"Which part"

"Why are you so hyperactive today? Long night with Mycroft?" I started to drink my coffee.

"If that's an acceptable answer, then yes."

"How late did he end up staying, anyway, Mycroft."

"Not late. Ten thirty or so."

"Good grief. What was it you two were talking about so late?"

"Nothing of consequence."

You flicked your eyes toward me, just for a second. God, you were a bastard. It had become uncomfortably easy for me to tell whenever you were lying to me. You always had to look, to check my reaction, to see if I had bought it, like I was one of your damn experiments. That same look. Every time.

"You're a terrible liar, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." I stirred my coffee. "What were you two discussing."

A short exhale. "Your health and safety, what else. Why else, John, would Mycroft come to speak with his estranged brother? What other 'business' do we have?"

"It was only a question. I didn't think Mycroft would mind me much."

"Well you should think again." You wadded up a few towels and tossed them into a trash a few paces away. "He fancies you."

"_Fancies_ me?" I snorted. "So this is what it feels like to be _fancied_ by the great Mycroft Holmes."

"And since you had the right to ask a question, I should too." You folded your arms across the clean table, leaning forward a bit. I sat back to keep from looking suspicious. "You received a letter from your parents informing you that they do not accept your homosexual relationship with your flatmate who just so happens to be myself. Right?"

" 'Just so happens'?" I made a face. "Yes. I read it to you."

"Yet your sister, Harriet, had also been involved in a homosexual relationship with her wife Clara for some time. Was their reaction the same?"

"Well, no." I sipped at my cup.

"Explain?"

"It was obvious that they weren't very fond of the idea from the beginning, but they kept it to themselves. They attended the wedding, bought them gifts and the like. But Harry and Clara have been separated for some time now."

You knitted your fingers together and propped them under your chin. "But why then, with their second child, would they be so forward with their opinion?"

"Probably just because they're more serious about it now." I set my cup down. "I would really rather not discuss it."

"Perhaps because of the gender of the perpetrator? Female is conditionally less serious but culturally the male is the leader of the house, the bearer of the family name, the man whose duty it is to marry and to carry on the line..."

"Sherlock."

"Without much extended family the father must be more interested in an heir than-"

"_Sherlock_, stop. They're here."

Lestrade and Anne came in through the door, the little bell above them chiming as they stepped inside. Anne giggled, her red hair done up into large curls that cupped around her face. Lestrade had his coat tightened, keeping a firm hold of Anne's hand in his thick glove. They both had red noses, but they looked accomplished. He noticed me right away, and walked over to us.

"Hello, my good men. Sherlock, John."

"John! How nice to see you again." Anne smiled at me, her eyes sparkling. She had a contagious smile, and I felt myself fall victim to it soon as she said my name. I stood up to greet her, and she hugged me firmly. "I was so nervous when you were ill at Mycroft's party. But I'm glad you're feeling better."

"As am I." I pulled a chair for her, and she thanked me and sat down. I took the seat beside her.

Lestrade sat across, beside Sherlock, still untying his scarf. "Have you two already ordered?"

"Yes, but not too long ago." I nodded.

"Alright, then." He released a long breath and put his elbows on the table. "How are you feeling, John?"

"Been better. But I'm improving." I plastered on a smile, shaking my head a little. "Slowly but surely."

"We're still investigating what the cause might have been for his sickness at the party," You hummed, a little less subtle than you should have been in keeping a watch on Anne. Luckily she hadn't noticed it yet.

"Do you think it could have been food poisoning?" Anne asked, her eyes flashing.

"...not quite _food_ poisoning."

"Then perhaps a crime?"

"Now's not the time to be discussing crime, right, Sherlock?" Lestrade laughed, a bit of nervousness breaking through.

"No. Now's exactly the time to be discussing crime," You smiled, a devilish gleam in your eye that made both Anne and I shrink back into our chairs.

* * *

Ha

Sorry but I don't want the chapter to end up too long

Next part up soon


	11. Chapter 11

I'm sorry but if Watson and Sherlock don't make up and become friends again in the new episode I might just cry for days.

Am I the only one who's really excited for Sherlock but also really anxious like what if things don't work out the way I expect what if Moffat does something horrible doesn't he know I've entrusted my mental state to him he'd better take good care of it or I might sue him

Can an American minor sue a British television writer is that possible

Ahem anyway sorry here you go

* * *

In my therapy appointment I had tried my best to convince Mrs. Thompson that I was fine. But it's difficult to work against a person's conviction. She was worried, and I was flattered that she cared enough to go out of her way. After all, I was only a client. She had other clients, other worries, but she took time to make sure I was alright. I just wished that she was using it for a better purpose than to try to diagnose me with a condition I didn't have.

She turned her pen over in her hand, studying me.

"John. Do you understand why your doctor and I are taking this attack so seriously?"

"Ehm, not quite, to be honest." I shifted in my seat. "Well I know you're worried about my health, something about relapse..."

"Your well-being is priority for both of us. We are both well aware, clearly, of your mental history, and the sharp _improvement_ you experienced just after your friend was returned to you."

"Why do you have to say it like that. '_Improvement_'."

"You were suicidal, John. You were plagued with sadness and anxiety to the point that you couldn't force yourself out of bed; you didn't eat, you didn't sleep. Weeks you were like that."

"But I got better."

"It nearly killed you."

_"I got better."_

"Did you, John?" She sat forward. "Or did you simply bury it, instead?"

I closed my mouth tightly, my nostrils flaring. She just didn't know. She didn't _understand_. She thought she knew better than I did about what I had lived through. She was wrong. No. I knew better than she did, _I_ lived through it. _I_ lived through my best friend's suicide, not her. _I_ lived through the suicide ward, not her. _I_ lived through a _fucking war_, not her. If I lived through Afghanistan, if I lived through the fall, I wouldn't just fall over on the side of the street because I couldn't handle _my own feelings_.

She looked at me with sad eyes. Had I said all that out loud? I had said that all out loud. My hands were gripping the arms of the chair tightly, and I wasn't sure if I could let go just yet.

"Calm down, John. I'm only trying to help."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Thompson, I'm..." I reached up and touched my forehead. "I'm sorry."

"It's perfectly fine, John. Obviously you have some pent-up anger that you need to release."

I slammed my foot on the floor as forcefully as I could, then paused.

"The only pent-up anger I have is because of the decisions of yourself and my doctor," I hissed, "along with the side-effects of this damn medicine you've put me on."

"Well, I'm sorry you're having such trouble, John."

She flipped through the pages of her notepad while I seethed across the room from her.

"I've made you a list of activities that you can use to fill your time and relax your mind and your body. Do you remember those breathing exercises I taught you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Those might be useful in the event of another attack." She ripped a page off her pad and handed it to me. "The list is long, and I don't expect you to fulfill all of them, but if you're feeling anxious try pursuing one of these. For example, hot baths are a great way to calm down, both for physical and mental ailments. Or you could take the next step and visit a massage. You've said before that going for walks help you to think. You should arrange to walk more often, if you can, but not too far from your home. If symptoms become prolonged, perhaps you should look into purchasing a small animal, like a cat. They're great for companionship and give you something to focus on, even to talk to if necessary."

"Dear God, not a cat. Those things are demons." I grumbled, looking over the sheet. "_Table tennis_?"

"Do you like dogs, then? A small one could find your flat very cozy."

"A dog could be considered. But I'm not sure what Sherlock would think about a pet. We would have to pick up around the flat a little, at least." I folded up the sheet and put it in my jacket pocket. "I'll look into it."

"Good." Mrs. Thompson stood from her chair, and so did I. "Thank you for coming in today, John. I hope I'll be seeing you again soon."

"Em, yeah." I shook her hand, and crutched toward the door. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson."

"Good afternoon." She smiled, watching me towards the door. When she thought I couldn't hear her, she released a sigh.

* * *

I fiddled with the hem of my jacket underneath the table while Lestrade and Anne ordered. The former didn't look too happy with you at the moment; obviously you had forgotten to mention the fact that you invited them out to question his girlfriend, not for a lunch date. Anne seemed nervous, but was trying to cover it up. She refolded her napkin twice.

After our waitress had left, Lestrade turned back to you. "So, what is it, Holmes. You think John was drugged? What does that have to do with us?"

"Two days ago I paid another visit to Mycroft," You started. "I examined his kitchen and serving area, along with the members of his staff, and the cleaning supplies, and guess what I found?"

"A lead?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. So, then, I thought, why not examine the drink? Mycroft had a large cellar built into the basement. Ten-digit keypad lock, and obviously he kept it quite clean, even I couldn't tell the code. Inside were numerous bottles, too many than I'd care to mention, each with dates and amounts written beside their holdings. Each one was accounted for. There were even records of which wines were requested by which guests. Mycroft really does cover his bases. You, Mrs. Whitehorse, requested a type of champagne called _Lécuyer_, which is a from relatively new winemaker that has been fetching high prices on the market. Mycroft only owned two bottles, and gratefully opened one for you. This is the type of champagne you ordered, this is the type of champagne you offered to John and I. No one else had a taste of the wine. I did not drink my glass, but John did."

"Are you implying that I was the one to poison John?" Anne frowned.

"Not implying, _deducing_."

"That has no basis," Lestrade grumbled.

"It has a _very_ firm basis, Lestrade." You grinned, pleasured by the map you laid out in your head. "Tell me, Anne, where did the poison come from? Did you somehow intercept the wine? Or did you put it into the drink when you handed it to him? Did you try to poison me, too? Or were you focused on one victim?"

"I, uh... sir, I think you've-"

"Here you are, nice and hot." The waitress butted right into the conversation, and put plates out in front of us; the tuna for you, and the chicken for me. You looked at me and my food with a confused kind of expression, and I could almost hear you asking "but I thought we were splitting?"

She disappeared, and Anne stirred her salad with her fork.

"I'm afraid you haven't found your criminal, Mr. Holmes. I didn't do anything to John's drink."

"But you must have. It's so obvious."

Anne gave you a sort of apologetic smile. "I haven't done anything to John."

"Hear her very clearly, Sherlock." I said, pulling apart my wrap. "I told you she hadn't done anything."

"Thank you, though, for suspecting my date of poisoning your fiancé." Lestrade growled.

You took a large bite of the tuna salad, chewing as you began to think.

"I'm sorry about him, Anne," I apologized.

She laughed. "Oh, it's no problem. I'm sure he's worried about you." She turned and smiled at you. "I hope you find out what really happened, Mr. Sherlock."

You swallowed. "I don't see how it couldn't have been the wine."

"Maybe it was a _mental_ thing." Lestrade piped up. "Y'know, like the _doctor_ said."

"Not likely. More likely, poisoning."

"Most likely, you're making this too complicated than it needs to be."

We finished our meal without another work from you.

* * *

Next part up soon


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock's been released can I get a fuck yeah

I'm going to be one of those losers who watches it before the 19th don't worry I literally can't wait I have no patience at all

Hope you guys all had a good New Year, didn't get too wasted right

Enjoy the next part kiss

* * *

After lunch we four decided to head back over to our flat. The melting snow made it a little more difficult to walk along the sidewalk, but Baker Street was just a few blocks away, so it wouldn't be too far. We started off walking together, but you and Lestrade somehow ended up deep in conversation several paces away, leaving the man with a cane and the woman in heels behind. I had to hold on to Anne several times to keep her from falling.

"Today was a bad day to wear these shoes, I guess." She smiled sheepishly, righting herself.

"It's perfectly fine. We weren't planning on walking to the flat, anyway. Here, put your arm in mine. We'll walk together."

"Are you sure it's alright?" She asked, holding on to my elbow. "Sherlock has a spark of hatred in his eye for me. Wouldn't want to stir up any jealousy."

I laughed. "No, no, it's fine. It's their fault for leaving us back here to fend for ourselves." I motioned with my head to where you and Lestrade were still talking, ignorant of anything else. Anne looped her arm around mine, and we continued on connected.

"Well, thank you, John. You're awfully sweet." Anne chuckled a little. "Are you and Sherlock going anywhere for Christmas? Relatives, friends?"

"I don't believe so. Neither of us are quite close to our families - and they're reasonably small - though Anderson did invite us for dinner. Don't ask me why."

"Oh, yes, I think that's where Lestrade wanted to go. Philip?"

"Yes, Philip."

"Then yes. Hopefully I'll see you there, then."

"That would be very nice."

"Definitely. You don't have any family in the area, you said?"

"No. My parents and my sister live in southern Wales. I have aunts and cousins on my mother's side, but they all live in America now. For their careers, I believe. No living grandparents."

"Ah, I see. What about Sherlock?"

"His father has passed on, and his mother is peculiar in that she's not one for social gatherings. Much like his older brother. I've never actually met her before. I haven't heard anything about extended family. But the Holmes' are an interesting bunch, that I can assure you."

"I'm sure. You have quite the fortitude to marry into that family."

"A little less than necessary, I'm starting to think. Watch out for that sheet of ice. Looks slippery."

"Oh, thank you."

"What about you, Ms. Whitehorse? Any family in the area?"

"Please, don't call me that. Anne is fine. Ms. Whitehorse sounds like an old woman's name." She laughed. "No, no family in the area."

"Where's your family, then?"

"Well, ah. It's a complicated story." She pursed her lips. "My parents are separated, they had a nasty divorce in '03. Holidays haven't really ever been the same since then."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's no problem. Just a common evil, y'know. But tell me more about your family. Do you have any siblings?"

"One, five years my senior. Harry. Well, Harriet. She goes by Harry."

"Harry? Not quite a very feminine name, Harry."

"She's not a very feminine person, Harry." I chuckled. "But she's lovely."

"That's wonderful." Anne smiled.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"An older brother and a younger sister. My sister and I were never really close, she's still young and lived with my father after the divorce. My brother and I were best friends, though, before he died in a shooting."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It's alright now." She smiled again.

"You're awfully bright, considering the painful things your family has gone through," I mentioned.

"Why, thank you. I've tried to make it a priority to be positive. Show the world it hasn't beaten me yet, y'know?"

"That's a good mindset to have."

She nodded, and suddenly made a stop. You had noticed us, as you stood just a few paces from our doorstep, and watched us approach with that same look Anne had described earlier. Lestrade didn't seem to mind; he had a mischievous grin on his face, like he was looking forward to watching what your reaction would be.

"Thanks for the walk, John." Anne patted my arm and pulled away, stepping quickly onto the doorstep and into the flat, following Lestrade.

"Did you have a good _talk_," You asked, a small sneer in your voice.

"Yes, I did, actually. It was pleasant." I nodded to him, moving past and up the stairs to the flat.

Lestrade made himself at home immediately, touching some of the files you had left on your desk and sitting down in your armchair. "Well, it definitely hasn't gotten any cleaner in here. Just as heartwarming as ever."

"It is a charming little place, though. Oh..." Anne touched the portion of the wall that was riddled with bullet-holes, and glanced at Lestrade, confused. He just shook his head.

"Target practice," You said flatly, shedding your coat and hanging it on the back of your desk chair.

"In the house?" She wrinkled her nose. "On the wall?"

"I'm quite a fine marksman if I do say so myself."

"Congratulations, you can successfully hit a wall."

"I've had enough of your remarks for the day, Lestrade." You snapped.

He grinned, chuckling. "I'm just messing with you, Holmes. Sit down."

You stalked into the kitchen.

"...er, do you two want some tea, or coffee, maybe?"

"Coffee sounds good," Anne said, looking across the scattered contents of your desk. A small metal disk whizzed past her head, making her jump back with a squeak, stumbling into your whiteboard. All of us turned to look into the kitchen, where you stood, still frozen with your arm extended post-throw. A moment of silence passed.

"_Please_ take a seat, Ms. Whitefield," You said calmly, "and don't touch any of my belongings. Or John's, for that matter."

"My apologies." She sat down across from Lestrade, wild-eyed.

"Damn, Sherlock, calm down." I glared at him, and patted Anne on the shoulder. "Are you alright? He didn't clip you, did he?"

"No, no, I'm fine."

"Such hospitality, huh, Sherlock?" Lestrade shouted.

"Not for questionable people," You retorted.

Anne looked a little unsettled.

"Sherlock!" I folded my arms. "Apologize, right now."

"What?"

"Apologize. _Now_. Our guest in no way deserves your rude remarks or... flying utensils."

"It was hardly a utensil," You murmured, pulling the disk out of the wall. "And I don't think the word 'our' is quite applicable, she is _your_ guest. I've invited Lestrade, not Anne. _You_ invited Anne."

"Sherlock!" I set my hand on the side of the end-table.

"_My apologies_, Ms. Whitehorse - if that even _is_ your name - I seem to have some difficulty controlling my actions around individuals I find particularly suspicious."

Lestrade growled. "Sherlock, stop. You're just stirring up-."

"Trouble, yes, _just_ as Ms. Anne has been doing, ever since she introduced herself to John and I. Don't you see it in her eyes? For the love of God, your little minds-"

I lost my balance, falling into the end-table and knocking over the lamp. It cracked, a few pieces scattering along the floor. The room swam a little as I desperately started my therapist's breathing exercises, closing my eyes against you and your stupid arguments. I felt your hand on my head, and faintly recalled hearing your voice, but it might have been Lestrade's. Upon opening my eyes, I first saw Anne, standing behind Lestrade. Your eyes were close to mine, speaking to me, loudly.

"M'fine, m'fine," I breathed, putting a hand on my chest. "Oh, God, the lamp."

"Never mind the lamp, are you _alright_?" You studied my face, my body, just like you had in Mycroft's study. Looking for a problem, finding none.

"Yes, Sherlock." My lungs still felt tight, so I closed my eyes and continued the breathing exercise until they loosened.

Lestrade's voice. "John, you're not getting better, are you? You're getting worse."

Your hands disappeared. I opened my eyes, just as you approached the inspector.

"It was an _accident_," You hissed. "It is not an accurate representation of his mental state."

"I think it's a pretty damn good representation of his mental state." Lestrade folded his arms.

"Perhaps you should leave."

"Stop it, Sherlock." I half-shouted, as soon as I could catch my breath. "Just stop."

I had the group's attention for a few moments, until Greg flexed his jaw and straightened his jacket.

"John is right. We should leave, let him get some rest." He flashed a smile toward you and stepped forward to help me, offering a hand, which I gratefully accepted. Anne embraced me as soon as I was on my feet, much to your scorn. You came in close behind her, setting your hand on my back as our two guests moved quickly toward the door.

"Good evening, John, Sherlock," Anne called up the steps. "I'll be seeing you at Christmas."

They left.

You immediately went to my attention, rolling up my sleeves to check for any cuts from the lamp. "Are you alright? No wounds? How are you feeling? Lightheaded? Nauseous? Is there pain in your chest or abdomen? Tell me, John. And come sit down."

"I'm quite alright now. My chest feels tight. But I seem to have avoided anything too terrible." I fell into my armchair. "Except, of course, stumbling into a relationship with _you_."

"I guess you have nothing to worry about after all." You knelt and rolled up the cuffs of my trousers. "No wounds here either?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm fine."

"You're _ingenious_, John. Simply ingenious." You made a short kind of giggling sound.

"Ingenious? What do you mean, ingenious?"

"My theory was correct, after all. Anne is our culprit, I'm telling you. She's up to no good."

"_Sherlock_..." I rubbed my forehead. "She's already told you face-to-face that she hasn't done anything to me. She's completely trustworthy, to both me and Lestrade, and I'm sure if you ask Sally or Anderson they'd say the same-"

"But they're all so easily deceived, John, don't you _see_? Ah, but I knew it, I _knew_ I couldn't be fooled. She almost had me, but not quite. Not _quite_. I'm having much more fun with her than I have had in a while."

"What are you going on about now, Sherlock."

"I have _evidence_, John!"

"Evidence? What 'evidence'?"

You grabbed the sides of my head and held it towards yours, your expression close to ecstatic as you exclaimed "_Spontaneous reaction_."

* * *

Next part up soon


	13. Chapter 13

2014 gave me a cold as a welcome gift isn't that lovely

Sorry this is a little later than usual I got beat up ok don't get too angry

Just fair warning the beginning of this is dark but enjoy

* * *

Nightmares came violently and mercilessly. Scenes of blood and war and horror flashed quickly and then vanished. Friends I had lost in Afghanistan. Soldiers whose sceams I endured as they were tormented by the blade, by my needle. The cold, twisted faces of the men and women who died on the table. Captains, screaming in my face, weeping hysterically, grabbing toward their missing leg, missing limb. Men driven insane. The evidence of drugs and rape and hatred and suicide.

And flashes of you, beside me, armed. You, running for water, running for bandages. You, ducking below bombs, dodging bullets.

You, laying in the bath, your head against the wall.

Maggots. Maggots, everywhere. A mass grave, corpses piled on top of each other. Set on fire. Screams echoed from within the hill, blood-curdling sceams, hopeless soldiers, hopeless people, buried within layers and layers of maggots. There was no help for them.

Flames licked their bones. Guns rang out, bullets flying through the air. Blood soaked into the ground, turning the trees and the sky red. Waves of blood washed all the soil away. Men tackled each other, fighting, choking, breaking, gnawing. No one was clean. No one was innocent. Everyone was dead.

You turned your head toward me, your dark curls dripping.

The bath was filled with blood, to the brim.

You lifted your hand toward me, your eyes glazed with death. As you parted your lips, maggots sprouted, and your skin pulled away like parchment set aflame.

* * *

I woke in a cold sweat, sitting up straight, my head and my heart pounding. The dark room interrupted my horrible dreams, and I welcomed it. I let out a little whimper, curling my legs against my chest as I caught my breath. You turned over a little, but didn't stir. I put my head in my hands, trying to stop the swirling and spinning and trouble it was causing.

"Breathe, John..." I whispered to myself. "They're just dreams. They're just dreams."

The trembling gradually receeded, and I let my arms fall to my sides. It was about three in the morning, too early to wake up quite yet. I cursed under my breath, and took a sip of water from the glass on my bed-table. Might as well try to get back to sleep.

I laid down beside you, on my side, facing the clock, but not closing my eyes. I just watched as the little blue numbers blinked.

Something creaked.

Our flat might've been well-aged, but I had learned to recognize a sound caused by the weather. That sound was not. It was not from another flat, either. I reached out my hand to touch you, just to make sure you were still there. You were. It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson walking through, what would she be doing in our flat this time of night? And, there was no sign of light from beneath the door.

For a moment I was still, straining my ears for another sound, another rustle of the wind. Anything.

Another creak.

My mind snapped into focus. I opened the drawer of my bed-side table, slowly, as to not make any noise, and reached in for my pistol. Drawing it out, I rose to my feet. I hadn't memorized where the soft spots of the floor were (it had never really been of any importance before), but luckily my first step didn't made a noise. My second step was not so lucky. I froze, my ears again straining. The other creaking stopped as well. You still hadn't stirred.

I stepped into the hall, sliding through the opening of the doorway. The only light came from the streetlights through the windows of the living room, and even that was dim. I pulled the pistol up, my heart pounding in my ears. I hadn't heard any other creaks, but I headed toward the kitchen. The bathroom door was closed, and I hadn't heard any door, so I ignored it. With the gun beside my ear, I peered into the dark kitchen. There was no one.

When I was certain it was clear, I took another step. My suspicions of someone in the flat were starting to crumble as my eyes adjusted and I saw the dusty emptiness of the flat. A cold breeze entered the house, and I turned to see that the kitchen window was open, the curtains fluttering along with a few snowflakes. I shivered, but didn't touch the window. I continued into the main room, still listening closely for any other creaks or groans.

A door shut outside, a car door by the sound of it. I hurried to the window, dropping the pistol to my knee as I looked. A black car sped off, spewing snow and sleet behind its wheels. I couldn't tell if it had stopped before our house, there were definitely no tracks in the snow to prove that. I studied the lisence plate, trying to memorize it as best I could before it turned the corner.

There was a rustle from behind, and I instinctively turned, gun pointed, heart leaping.

"What are you doing out here at this time of night?"

You reached to the wall and flipped the lightswitch. I blinked, my eyes hurting with the sudden brightness. You pursed your lips. It was a little funny, with your unruly bed hair and bathrobe only halfway on. You had a jar of knuckle bones clutched in your hand, maybe to serve as a weapon. I lowered the pistol.

"I heard someone," I said, quietly. "Someone was in the flat."

"A burglar? Was anything taken?" You set the jar down.

"I didn't see anything." I looked around the flat. Both computers were still at the desk. The telly was there. My phone was sitting on the kitchen table beside a large set of glass test tubes. "Doesn't look like they were after our electronics."

"Obviously not." You looked over the table and checked the cabinets. "Are you sure you heard someone?"

"I'm sure. And they left that window open." I motioned to the kitchen window, and you went to examine it. "There was a car that just drove past, too. A black one. Not sure if it stopped or not, but I swore I heard its door close."

You knelt over and sniffed the windowsill, then pushed the window closed. "I don't see any fingerprints or smudges."

"Maybe he wore gloves." I ran my hand through my hair. "Why would someone be in our flat, Sherlock?"

"Are you sure you saw someone?"

"No, but I heard him."

You made a face, just a slight twinge of both annoyance and disbelief.

"I heard him, Sherlock, in our flat. In the kitchen. I swear I did."

"Maybe it's just your imagination. You've been having a lot of nightmares."

"I wasn't imagining it!"

"Let's just get back to sleep, John. We'll figure this out in the morning." You yawned.

My eyes fell. Of course he didn't believe me. But I know I had heard something, and it wasn't me who opened that window. Nonetheless, I followed you back into the hall, and you slipped the pistol from my hand.

* * *

The game is afoot, Watson

Next part up soon


	14. Chapter 14

So funny story I originally thought that Anderson's surname was Jones because the annoying inspector from the Sherlock books is named Athelney Jones (Athelney is similar to Anderson right) but turns out that Anderson is his surname and his first name is Philip. Who knew? So I fixed that in the last chapter hahaha

Sorry if this chapter is a little choppy, I tried to finish it really fast and I might've made a few mistakes along the way please don't slaughter me

Thank you so much for all the reviews and follows you guys literally make my entire life

* * *

As soon as it was light, I was up, dressed, and examining the kitchen closely. I was no Sherlock Holmes, but I could still stretch a little bit to be an acceptable form of investigator myself. I humored the idea of wearing the deerstalker, but I didn't really care for the comments you would throw afterward.

First I grabbed one of the magnifying lenses you had left on the table and looked at the windowsill. There was a break in the dust, two hands pressing firmly on the top of the window. I assumed they must've been yours, from when you had closed the window last night. There were no other hand-prints except for yours. I knelt down and looked at the bottom of the window, but I couldn't find prints or any evidence of a burglar.

I then looked around the kitchen in case anything was missing or disrupted. At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. Your various experiments always looked like a mess of random glass and plastic scattered around, anyway; I would never have noticed if something was out of place. But I did notice that one of the cupboards hung open just an inch, just a tiny sliver, when I was certain I had shut it that night.

The cabinet in question held Mrs. Hudson's more valuable glass and china. In the time you and I lived with her, we had used the set three times. Twice for holiday dinners, and once when you used them to dine with one of your clients (who turned out to be a sociopathic serial killer some time later). On the upper shelves we also kept our medical supplies. For a while I had hid your drugs there, but now we use it for various bandages, med kits, and any prescriptions either of us had. You had broken the hinges of the shelf so that it wouldn't stay closed unless attatched to a clip I had stapled to the inside of the cabinet. You and I knew how to close the door. But a burglar, possibly rummaging through the cabinets for silver, would not realize his mistake.

"Sherlock?" I called, wiggling the cabinet door slightly. "Come here."

"You're out of toothpaste," You announced, coming into the room with nothing but your pants and robe. You opened the fridge, and pulled out a jug of milk, shaking it around. "And almost out of milk."

"We'll have to go by the grocery. But, Sherlock?"

"What is it."

"Did you fiddle with this door at all this morning?"

"I don't fiddle with anything. And no, I didn't touch the cabinet. Why?"

"It's off its lock again." I let the door go, and it swung wide.

"Maybe your mysterious burglar opened it," You sang, mockingly.

"I really did hear someone, Sherlock. Someone was in the flat. They went through the kitchen window. We should really think about getting new locks, maybe re-installing this sill. For such a fantastic detective, your house is definitely not up to par in security measures. We don't want another break-in, or anything else."

"There was hardly a burglary. Nothing was taken. I never heard anything out of the ordinary, except for you bustling aroud with that pistol of yours. Tea or coffee?"

"I swear, Sherlock, there was someone here. The window was open - I didn't open it! - and there was a car that drove away just as I went to the window."

"Coincidences that you saw as evidences in your half-sleeping and nightmare-ridden mind. Tea or coffee?"

"But I was sure this time!"

"Tea or coffee?"

"Tea!"

You nodded, and filled the kettle with water from the tap.

"You've been too stressed lately. Your nightmares are escalating; I've noticed, I'm not sure if you have. That medication hasn't yet had any positive influence, you're still getting over the side-effects, which in some rare cases may include paranoia and moderate hallucinations, along with memory problems and trouble focusing."

"Sherlock..."

"The last thing you need is another thing to get upset about." You swept the contents of a chair onto the floor and moved it so that it was open toward me. "Sit down, start your day off slowly. I just brought in the mail, why don't you go through it while I make the tea."

I grumbled but listened, sinking into the chair and picking up the nearest letter. We had gotten a heavy load of Christmas cards, some with American addresses, from my aunts and cousins; a few from my friends from Bart's, then there were old friends from the war, even one from my high school friend. Yet there was a hollow absence of Christmas cards addressed to you. I wasn't surprised, but it still made me a little sad.

While I went through them, you had found a piece of paper on the counter and read it over the stove.

"What is this, John?" You squinted your eyes. "Why does it say table tennis?"

I looked up. "Oh, that's from my therapist. It's a list of things that were relaxing, to keep anxiety low and whatnot."

"Strange." You turned the page around, as if you were expecting some kind of evil code to be scribbled on the back. "Why did you circle the section about the cat?"

"Well, she said that having a small animal in the house, like a cat or a dog, could help with long-term symptoms. Companionship kind of thing. She said I should talk to you about it."

"Hmm."

You stared at the page for another few seconds, then slapped it down on the table with a force that made me jump.

"Yes, I like that idea. I'm surprised I hadn't thought of that before. A dog. That would help settle both of the problems at hand, don't you think?"

"Both?"

"Companionship and increased health for you, plus an extra layer of security for the house."

"Oh. Well, yes, that sounds like a great idea." I nodded.

"Good. Then we'll go as soon as this pot is finished."

"That fast?"

"Of course. Why waste time when we don't have to." You disappeared into the bedroom to change.

* * *

The nearest dog pound was a small, damp thing that smelled like cheap coffee and dog urine. The employees were all overweight and looked at us with narrow eyes, suspicious of everything, angrily demanding ID and credit cards and that I leave my gun behind the desk while inside the building.

However, the owner knew you well; as he relayed, you had helped him settle a problem he was having with some French delegates. Why any French delegate would have a problem with a balding pound manager, I had absolutely no clue. But he was kind, and let us go in to see the dogs without any question. He even offered to half the price, just for us, even throwing in a bag of dog food if we happened to select one older than five.

We walked in to see the dogs, and were immediately greeted by all of them, at the same time. There were two seperate cages, both rather large. On the left were the small dogs, and on the right were the large dogs. Obviously our flat could not accomodate a fully-grown Marmaduke or German Shepherd, as friendly as they appeared, so I went closer to the cage with the smaller dogs, while you and the manager stayed a few steps behind.

"It has to be hypoallergenic," I said, nearly shouting so that I was heard above the noise of the dogs. "I'd rather not be vaccuuming hair out of the rug every other day, so a non-shedding or shorthaired dog would work."

"There are plenty of those," You answered. "There are terriers, the yappy rascals, and Chihuahuas, but a Chihuahua would last a day before I shot it. Shih Tsus, Bichon Frise, a toy poodle, maybe."

"I don't want some girly dog," I wrinkled my nose. "We need a handsome dog."

"Handsome, eh?" The manager laughed, his belly jumping. He walked up to the mouth of the cage, and called one of the dogs to him. "Sounds like you boys are looking for a Basenji. Luckily I've got a young one right here for you to see. Red coat, picked him up from the streets a few blocks from here. Pretty good shape. C'mere, Rolo!"

A brown dog lept up to nip at the manager's fingers, and he lifted him out of the cage.

"These little fellas are quite smart for their size. They're fantastic hunters, can hunt with their eyes just as well as their ears, like a proper hound. They've got the nickname the 'barkless dog' for their yowl. They'd be great for a flat."

"Sounds perfect. Hey there, boy." I smiled at the dog, and it made a short whimpering sound, sniffing my hand and licking it.

"Is this one already vaccinated?" You asked, stepping toward it.

"Not sure. Didn't have any tags on him.

When you extended your hand to touch the dog, it lashed out at you, baring its teeth and flailing against the manager's arms.

"Ah, you must've startled him," He laughed, calming the dog down.

You fixed your coat, slightly miffed.

I patted the dog's head again, scratching just behind his ear. "Come again, Sherlock. Slowly, this time. Let him smell you."

You did, coming right in front of him so he could see you, letting your hand stretch in front of his nose. But as he caught your scent, he bared his teeth again, and you retreated before he could cause another panic.

"I never was one for animals," You hummed.

"Well, I guess he's a no, then." I pursed my lips as the manager set the dog back into the cage. "You don't have any other Basenjis, do you?"

"Nope, only one."

"That's too bad."

You exhaled slowly. "Yes. Thank you for your help, we're very grateful."

"Anything for you, Mr. Holmes." The man grinned and patted my back, knocking the wind out of me.

You swept out of the room, nearly forgetting me in the process.

* * *

Our next stop was a breeder in Greenwich. You had found him from your mobile phone, by an ad on the internet that had attracted your attention. The man, Francis Brent, had a history in training scent-dogs for various sports, including hunting. He specialized in Basenjis, and had a litter of purebred puppies ready for adoption.

You made sure when we arrived to ask Brent as many questions as you could fit in your mouth. You asked to see the mother's records, though I doubted you had put much study into the health or lineage of dogs. You asked how much the vaccinations would cost, what kind of food they ate, how often they needed to be walked, how long it would take for them to adjust to the new house. Luckily for us he had already housebroken the puppies, so we didn't have to worry about that.

While you busied with that, I sat with the Basenji puppies. There were seven of them in all, with pretty red coats and almond brown eyes. They yowled and pounced on my legs as I sat down, licking playfully at my arms and face. After a few minutes of being trampled by paws, the pests found other things to play with, and went back to their business in the room like I had never been there. One curled up beside my foot and took a nap, as if he had already accepted me as his best friend and was settling into our new life together.

I sighed and set my arms on my knees. I felt like a little boy in a pet store, getting to see the little dogs and dreaming of which one I was going to choose. No doubt my flatmate would be turning the dog into another crime-solving tool, of course, but the childish excitement was still there.

One of the puppies had taken a liking to my shoe string, yanking and pulling at the lace with all its might. I picked it up and held it out, looking over it. Its curly tail shook, and it whimpered at me, sticking its long tongue out to lick my thumb.

"Hey, boy." I smiled at him, and put him in my lap. He pawed at my leg and rolled onto his back, sticking his feet into the air. I chuckled and pulled at them.

"Did you decide?" You asked, squatting down beside me.

"This one's playful." I set the dog back on his feet, and he trotted over to you, sniffing your shoes, the hem of your trousers, and then your crotch.

"Well, that's better than the first one, I guess." You picked him up to take a look, and he pissed on your shirt.

I grinned. "He's already proven himself."

* * *

"What about Gladstone. Like the park."

I held the dog in my lap as we rode the cab back to Baker Street. You made a face, turning to me with a mock kind of annoyance.

"What kind of name is that? Gladstone?"

"My cat was named Gladstone, when I was small. Birthday present. Little tabby cat." I petted the dog's head, and he whimpered at me. "He looks like a tabby kind of dog, with his red coat. I like the name Gladstone."

"Please, at least try to pick something reasonably common."

"That's awfully strange coming from a man named Sherlock."

You frowned.

"We've bought him for me, so he's mostly mine, after all. I should get to name him whatever I choose. I like the name Gladstone." The dog nipped playfully my hand, and I smiled at him. "Gladdie. That'll be his name. Short for Gladstone."

"Gladdie. Ironic."

"What?"

"I can settle for Gladdie."

"Good. He'll be Gladdie." I scratched his ears. "Tomorrow we'll go out and buy him a bed and his food, and a collar. We'll have to buy a collar. Mrs. Hudson will love him, I'm sure. She's always telling me how much she-"

"Do you see the black car turning the corner on Seminole." You said, staring ahead. I furrowed my eyebrows, turning to look.

"Yes, I see it. What about it?"

"Is that the same car you recall seeing drive away from our house?"

"...No. Different model." I looked at you.

"The car has been following us the last several streets." You leaned foward, toward the cabbie. "Take a right here, go the route through Rochester instead."

You settled back as the cabbie changed directions. The car you had pointed out turned with us.

* * *

Next part up soon


	15. Chapter 15

Finally got to watch The Empty Hearse! I'm not going to spoil it for you guys who haven't seen it but holy guacamole it was fantastic I may or may not have watched it about 37 times already

Thanks guys so much for all the reviews and follows and favorites you guys legitimately make my life thank you thank you thank you

Here's the next part hope you all enjoy and look forward to the next Sherlock release ahh

* * *

"Sherlock? What do you expect we do, then?"

Subconsciously I held the dog close to my chest, and it licked at the bottom of my chin. You drummed your fingers against the door of the cab, glancing behind again and then out toward the street. Your eyes flashed as you thought, eliminating possibilities, determining outcomes. Then you reached out and touched my leg, pulling your phone out of your coat with the opposite hand.

"Sit still. I'll send my brother a text to be sure it isn't one of his people." You said as you tapped it out on your mobile. "We'll go into the house just as normal. Don't make any stray glances toward the car, we don't want to alert them. Act as oblivious as possible."

"Alright..." I started to turn to steal a glance at the car, but you planted your hand firmly on my shoulder.

"Don't. They might see." You turned down to your phone.

"You boys aren't in any trouble, are you?" The cabbie asked, a Welsh accent sliding through.

"No, sir, we're quite alright."

Your phone made a sound, and I looked over your shoulder to see. The rest of your conversation history had been deleted, save for the last few minutes.

_Black Cadillac. 2008. Yours?_ - SH

_Not to my awareness_. - MH

"So if it isn't Mycroft, who is it?"

"Not sure. Still thinking."

The cab turned onto Baker Street, and stopped at our door.

"Wait in here, I'll get your door. Let's put on a good show."

I rolled my eyes as you got out and came around to open my door for me. "Quite a boyfriend," The cabbie remarked with a laugh as I stepped down, the dog cradled in the loop of my arm. He didn't have a leash, so I carried him to the door. I tried to ignore the Cadillac as it rolled past, but I still felt the uncomfortable prick at the back of my neck whenever there was danger. The dog nipped at my arm, and I hurried into the flat.

"There you are." I set Gladdie down on the step, and he sniffed it, confused. "It's a staircase. You go up them. Aw, look at him. He can't even climb stairs."

"I don't understand..." You murmured, shedding your coat. "I don't know why someone would see the need to follow us. Even to assume you were correct about last night's burglary, why would they need to follow us? What's so important about our leaving?"

"I can't wait until Mrs. Hudson gets to meet him, she'll be so excited, don't you think." I picked Gladdie up and started up the stairs.

"Would you please just pay attention, John, I'm trying to fit this all together." You frowned, looking back at your phone.

_Have you gotten yourself into trouble, again?_ - MH

"Don't get short with me, Sherlock. Let's get into the house before you start making deductions." I huffed, going up.

"Think of all the clues, right? All the instances." You started making wide hand motions. "First it was the dinner party, right? Anne Worchester, who gave you the fancy champagne, and shortly thereafter you had your first 'panic attack'."

"Whitefield. Her name is Whitefield."

"Whatever. You were in the hospital, approximately twelve hours. Then you came home. You started your medication on the second day, mid-morning. I need to make a web of this, it's getting quite complex. I went to Mycroft's house on the third day to see if there were any signs of foul play - though by then evidence could have been destroyed, and any traces of drugs been excreted. The fourth day you recieved your letter from your parents, right, John? And you had your second panic attack."

"Do we have to call it a panic attack?" I sighed. "It carries too much baggage. Sounds... weak. I wouldn't categorize them as 'panic attacks'." I put Gladdie on the floor, and he ran off to explore.

"There isn't any other word to describe it. What were the symptoms, again? Increased heart rate and blood pressure, tightening of the chest and lungs, fear, illusioned asphyxia."

"_Illusioned_?"

"Yes, you feel as if you cannot breathe, even though there is nothing blocking your airway. Your brain cannot process the mental stress and therefore projects it into a false sense of strangulation or suffocation. This leads to a loss of consciousness. Asphyxia."

"Asphyxia. That's quite a word." I clicked to call Gladdie, and he trotted back to me.

"Yes. From the Greek. 'Stopping of the pulse.' " You pulled out your phone again, and glared at it.

_Do you need another trampoline?_ - MH

"What did Mycroft say?" I asked.

"He said he didn't send a car. Now he seems like he's suspicious." You grunted and tossed the mobile onto your desk, stalking into the kitchen. "Put your dog away, I'm going to make a web. Don't bother me."

I sighed and scooped up Gladdie, wandering back into the bedroom as you became completely ignorant of my presence.

* * *

It was eleven o'clock before you were finally exhausted of all possibilities in your web, closed down your computer, and came back into our room. I was sprawled out on my stomach on the bed, with Gladdie in front of me, pawing at my nose and making general playthings of my fingers and knuckles. He bit a few of them raw, but I didn't mind; his big brown eyes sparkled, and I grinned like a child.

"Gladdie is perfect, Sherlock." I said, looking up at you as you began to undress. "I don't know why I hadn't thought to buy a dog earlier."

"Probably because of your trust issues and lack of emotional stability," You answered.

I pursed my lips.

"I mean I don't know, John, it's quite a funny thing you didn't, don't you think." You made a short attempt at a smile, then turned back to the closet. You slid your shirt off and tossed it into the hamper, and reached in for your pajama bottoms.

"Ass." I picked up Gladdie and brought him into the bathroom, setting him into the box I'd outfitted for his makeshift bed. He yowled and pawed at the box, but he was too short to jump out. I scratched his ears and heard you come in behind me. "He can sleep in here for tonight, in his box. Tomorrow I'll go out and buy him a bed."

"We. We'll go out and buy him a bed. I don't want you going anywhere by yourself with a shadow." You ran the tap and slashed some water on your face.

"I'm not even going to bother arguing with you," I grunted.

"Good. You're finally learning."

I rolled my eyes and stalked back into the bedroom, walking around to my side of the bed and opening up the blankets. You came back in, still toweling off, with your upper half bare, although it had gotten a little chilly in the house.

"You're not going to sleep, are you?"

"Well of course I'm going to sleep, look at the time."

"Still early to me." You left the towel on the dresser and sat down, a familiar gleam in your eyes.

I huffed. "If you're looking for a shag, you're not going to get one, with your attitude tonight."

"I bought you a dog."

"...that doesn't mean anything."

We heard a little howl come from the bathroom.

"I think _Gladdie_ disagrees," You chuckled, leaning over me and placing one hand close to my waist. I made a face, but didn't push you away when you leaned down for a kiss. You smoothed my hair back, your lips gentle against mine, caressing my cheek as you inched our bodies closer together. My heart fluttered slightly, but a pang of fear settled in the pit of my stomach.

"Wait, Sherlock." I set my hand against your chest. "I'm not sure. What if, y'know, what if I start _asphyxiating_ again?"

"Then just tell me to stop. I won't push you." There was desire in your voice, and I suspected you weren't really focused on the conversation.

"I'm still not sure."

You sat back, drumming your fingers on the bed. Your face spelled disappointment, but I knew at least you were too cautious to touch me without my consent. With a defeated sigh you stood up to flip the lights off. I felt a sting of guilt.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." I wrinkled my hands in the blankets.

"Don't apologize," You said, climbing under the sheets. "Your health matters more."

"I know, but..." I sighed.

You put a hand on my neck, easing me down into the bed beside you, and you pulled the blankets up around my shoulders. I closed my eyes as you reached over me to switch off the bedside lamp, letting the room fall into darkness. Your hand settled on my waist, pulling me close to you.

"Goodnight, John," You whispered, pressing your lips against my forehead.

The dog howled from inside the bathroom, and you yelled at it to shut up.

"So much for a _romantic_ end to the night," I said, as Gladdie continued to whimper.

"I have a feeling that I'll regret this dog very quickly."

I chuckled and wrapped my arms around you, pressing my nose against the hollow of your neck.

* * *

Next part up soon kiss


	16. Chapter 16

Two updates in the same day what is this sorcery

My excuse is I was inspired ok and I like writing for this story

The nitty gritty complicated stuff is coming really soon and I always seem to just start pounding when things get interesting that's my curse

Hope you enjoy please leave me a review and tell me what you think

* * *

I was cooking eggs for breakfast when you slumped in with the paper, slapping it on the table with all the energy of a door-hinge. "I thought Basenjis were supposed to be the _barkless dogs_," You snarled, glaring down at the pup underneath the table. "That doesn't leave room for endless howling in the middle of the night, now, does it, _Gladdie_."

"He's just getting used to the new house," I said. "He'll stop as time goes by."

"He had better stop now, or we're going to have some problems." You grumbled, unfolding the paper. "How am I supposed to finish my cases when I'm kept up all night by a damn living _siren_ in a box in my bathroom."

"Speaking of cases, you haven't seen many clients lately, have you?"

"No, I put up a message on your blog that we wouldn't be seeing new clients until further notice."

"...you did? But I changed my password."

"Passwords are hardly any trouble for me, John, I thought you knew that already."

"Is there no such thing as privacy?" I scowled, setting a steaming plate of eggs in front of you. I took the seat across and tapped the handle of my fork against the table to get your attention. "Put the paper away, Sherlock, and let's eat."

"Not hungry."

I sighed and set my fork down. You folded the upper half of the paper down, shooting me a glare.

"I'm not in the mood for your power struggles this morning, John."

"Eat."

"And I assume if I don't eat, you won't either?"

"That's correct."

You grumbled, but set the paper in your lap and picked up your fork. "I wish you would stop with the whole 'concerned' act."

"And I wish you would eat on your own, but I guess neither of us are getting what we want." I popped my eyebrows, reaching across the table for my bottle of medication and rattling it a little before prying off the top. "Only have a few doses left," I mentioned, shaking two of the little tablets into my palm.

"You should schedule another appointment with your doctor," You said through a mouthful of egg.

"I think I'll put it off as long as I possibly can," I countered, swallowing them.

"And there we have it. You, putting off doctor visits until the last moment or until I push you to do it. I, putting off meals until they're necessary or until you push me to it."

"But you _need_ to eat, that isn't optional. Doctor visits are optional."

"Both are necessary, however."

I frowned, taking another bite.

"In any case, here I am, eating. And you can make an appointment tonight." You tore off a chunk of egg and tossed it below the table.

"If you want me to."

"I want you to." You opened up the paper again as you finished your plate. "I've been trying to develop my web, but I've about run out of fresh leads. I don't have enough clues to build a solid theory. There are just too many possibilities, too many ideas. I'll need to put more effort into investigation, definitely. Narrow the case down. I've already started to figure how to get in contact with our shadow car, but so far it involves quite a few taxis and a fantastic amount of cabbage soup."

"I would rather not spend a fortune on cabbages, thank you very much." I stood up and took your plate along with mine to the sink.

"I'll keep thinking."

"Why don't you think while we walk to the pet store. There's one on Carter Street, just a few minutes' walk away. We still need to buy Gladstone a collar and leash, not to mention dog food. I'd rather not get him sick with ours."

"Go yourself, I'm busy." You slurred, scanning over the paper.

"Are you kidding me?" I shifted my weight. "You're the one who made it clear you didn't want me going anywhere until you figured out who had been shadowing us."

"The both of us going together would look suspicious."

"_Suspicious_?" I laughed, shaking my head as I walked to get my shoes. "Sod this, Sherlock, _fine_, I'll go by myself. I'll take Gladdie with me, too."

"Good. I can't promise I won't skin him if you leave him here with me."

I grunted, sitting down in my armchair to tie my shoes. "And don't forget about the party tomorrow, Sherlock. We have plans, try not to ruin them."

"Party?"

"Yes. Anderson's Christmas dinner. Remember? The holidays? It's Christmas Eve, didn't you remember?"

"It hadn't crossed my mind."

I sighed and went back into the kitchen for my pocketbook. "I'll be back within an hour or so."

"Keep your phone on you," You said, not looking up from your paper.

"Alright, mum." I glared, stooping down to pick up the dog, and headed out the door.

* * *

We left the dog store at about ten-thirty, Gladdie trotting proudly with his new red collar secured around his neck. I put the loop of his leash around my wrist and carried the bag of dog food cans with my other hand. He was such an excited little thing, pouncing around with his tiny legs, stopping to sniff every blade of grass he passed by. His almond eyes sparkled with curiosity. I had to half-drag him most of the way back to Baker Street, but his size made it an easy battle. I tried to be careful not to hurt the poor pup, though. It was so difficult to focus on the direction we were going, and he always ended up three paces behind me.

My mind wandered a bit, as it usually did on walks, and settled on the holidays and Christmas. I was looking forward to the dinner party and getting to spend time with the Scotland Yard group. I hadn't seen Molly in quite a while and could hardly remember the last time I'd talked with Donovan. Anne would be there, too. Such a lovely young woman. I had to wonder how Lestrade could've attracted the affections of such a young, beautiful lady... legally, at least.

I briefly wondered if you had even thought of Christmas' approaching. I had bought my gifts for you even before the engagement, I had the idea for the gifts for a while. I figured you would scrounge something up last minute, or avoid buying me a gift altogether. It wouldn't have been surprising, but I admit, it would have been uplifting for me to know you had at least _thought_ about it.

There was a small tug on the leash. "Keep up, Gladdie," I groaned, getting a little tired of pulling him. I turned to look back at him, idly sniffing a fire hydrant.

I noticed the man then. He stepped out of a café about a quarter mile back, his long black coat reaching to his ankles. He had a hat that shadowed his eyes, and a long pipe that stuck out from beneath it. He noticed me, as well. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, he turned on his heel and began a slow pace in my direction.

My first thought was that he was one of Mycroft's people. But after the suspicious car last night, I wasn't going to wait for him to catch up with me. I hurried the dog along and kept going on my way, hoping that once I stopped noticing him he would disappear, just a stranger who chose to wear a dark coat on the wrong day.

Gladdie either thought it was a game or sensed that something was amiss, because he now kept up with me, running and jumping and making short snuffling noises. I led him further down the street, glancing back momentarily to see if the man was there. He was. His pace had picked up as well, I noticed. I tried to put on my metaphorical deerstalker and think of what you would do in this situation. I wasn't too far from Baker Street, but still too far for you to hear or see anything I wanted to try. I thought about sending you a text, but would that look suspicious? I didn't want to make myself a victim any worse than I had already.

I hopped my way down the sidewalk, keeping my walk brisk but not obviously so. The dog kept with me, zig-zagging down the sidewalk like a track dog on a scent.

Quickly I decided to take a detour, a sort of shortcut down another road to try to lose the man. I jogged through the crosswalk and ducked down a short alley, careful not to put myself out of public sight for too long at a time. Gladdie yowled like it was an adventure. As I turned the corner to Baker Street, I checked behind to make sure no one had pursued me, and nearly ran headlong into a long, dark coat.

"Oh, excuse m-" I swallowed, tilting my head up to look into the squinty eyes of the man in question.

"John Watson?" He cracked a smile, taking his pipe out from between his teeth. I took a step in retreat, but was greeted by another man the same size behind me. Gladstone sniffed at the hem of his trousers and began to growl.

"I'm sorry about him, I'll just..." I knelt down and scooped up Gladdie, giving him an apologetic smile as I gently sidestepped. "He's an awfully spunky one."

I shot off toward 221B faster than I could breathe, the dog pulled tight against my chest and the bag swinging wildly. The men pursued, but I was more swift-footed than they were, possibly because I was much closer to the ground. I shrieked your name as I rushed at the door, yanking it open and nearly dropping Gladstone in the process. They were at my heels, and I felt a hand graze past the collar of my jacket.

Gladstone was howling madly, kicking at my arms, and I dropped him onto the floor. He ran back near Mrs. Hudson's door, while I turned and swung the bag of cans toward one of the burglars, catching him in the side of the head and stunning him while I started up the stairs. I kept screaming your name, almost as if a second nature. But I didn't make it far before one of the men grabbed my foot, and as I tried to run, violently pulled me backward.

I couldn't catch myself in time. My head hit the corner of the stair, hard.

* * *

Next part up soon


	17. Chapter 17

_Three_ updates in one day, it must be Sunday

I still love reviews so you should still give them to me kiss

* * *

"Tell me what I want to know, and this will go a lot easier for you." Your voice, dark and growling, echoed into the back of my mind.

"You don't scare me, Holmes." An unfamiliar voice, husky, with a Welsh-sounding ring. He was breathing hard - at least, harder than you were. A swish of movement, and he groaned painfully, letting out short hisses of breath from between his clenched teeth.

Your whisper. "That can be corrected."

His groaning stopped, replaced by a deep inhale and exhale. "I'm not telling you anything. If you want to kill me, or torture me, be my guest. But you're wasting your time."

"I want to know who your employer is." No reply. The man's painful groans again pricked my ears. "Tell me. _Who is your employer_."

The man flexed his jaw, staying silent.

My head was pounding, and I could feel the bite of an ice pack laid on the upper part of my head. I remembered being chased, and running into the house, but things got fuzzy past the door. Where was I?

I opened my eyes a little bit at a time, but the light from the overhead still stung. It seemed to take a really long time to adjust to the light, even though it wasn't very bright, and long ovals of white bobbed in and out of my vision. We were in my old room, which had been cleaned out, save for the bed on which I was now laying. My neck and back were stiff and sore, I could feel it already. A well-rounded knot had formed on my head, underneath the ice pack. But besides that, I had all my limbs, and although I could taste blood, I couldn't see it. That helped me relax a little.

"Stay still, John. You've got a concussion, not sure how bad it is yet."

You were pacing around the room, your riding crop clenched tightly in your hand. There was a man, tied down to a chair, seated in front of you. He had bruises and cuts across his face and his chest, but his squinty eyes still watched you, cold and vicious. His leg was bleeding badly from a shot wound that had ripped through his thigh. I only assumed it had come from your gun.

"What's happened, Sherlock...?" I murmured, lifting a hand to touch my head.

"This man assaulted you, attacked you, invaded the flat with a friend of his. I chased the other one off, but he is here to give us some information." You didn't look at me, but I noticed that the area around your eye was swollen. You had taken a beating, too.

I started to sit up, but the pain in my head was too much.

"Stay down for a little while, let that swelling go down. You took quite a blow, Doctor." You walked in a circle around the man in the chair. "Allow me to redirect my attention back to you, Mr. Argall."

You brought the crop across the man's face. The sound of leather striking flesh made my skin crawl. Argall spat on the floor, saliva mixed with blood.

"Your methods of persuasion are very original, Mr. Holmes." He narrowed his eyes.

Your phone made a sound.

"I would think that's her now," Argall smirked, and you smacked him once more before turning away to read a text.

_You have something of mine._ - EL

"She won't be very happy to know you're keeping me here," He said with a tsk.

"Why are you of any importance?" You asked, typing in a reply. "You're just a hired thug, a disposable pawn."

"To you, perhaps."

"But not to your employer. Interesting."

_He's been an inconvenience to me._ - SH

The reply came within a few seconds.

_Even nuisances have debts to pay. Release him to me, would you, Mr. Holmes?_ - EL

_I'm afraid that's out of the question._ - SH

_I would encourage you to reconsider._ - EL

"What is it, Sherlock?" I croaked, forcing myself to sit up.

"Lay down, John." You faced away from Argall, and sent a text to your brother.

_Jack Argall. On record?_ - SH

"If I were you, Holmes, I would let me walk," Argall said, his voice dark. "if you cared at all for the well-being of your John."

"You haven't done him any harm since you've been tied to that chair, I count that as improvement." You slid your phone back in your pocket. "But _now_ I understand it, Mr. Argall. To be honest, you underestimated me. But thank you, good sir, for lining up the pieces for me, it makes the puzzle much easier to solve. I know everything about you. Former military, navy, dishonorable discharge. Youngest child. Alcoholic father. Married once, you left her. The woman you're sleeping with now is, in fact, your employer. You have recently been in her bedroom, haven't you? This morning, maybe? Of course, not many people know about it, you two are trying to keep it a secret, aren't you. But I'm sure your secret relationship has been crucial to the position you're in now."

The man was obviously trying to hide his shock, but he wasn't doing it very well.

"Obviously, then, your employer is a woman. A young one, at that. My guess would be late twenties, early thirties. Auburn-colored hair. Slim, curvier past the waist. That's your type, isn't it, Mr. Argall? But you're much older than she is, by twenty, no, thirty years. You are hiding your relationship, but why would you be hiding it if she were truly the 'top dog'? If she were the head of a corporation or some kind of criminal mastermind, it wouldn't matter what _other_ people thought of your love affair. She is, then, either a _member_ of a corporation, or is taking orders from someone above her, someone who she is either close to or wants to impress."

Argall swallowed hard. "You don't know any of that."

"In fact, I do. It's written across your face." You smirked and pulled out your phone again.

_Former navy captain. Dishonorably discharged in 2004. Accusations of rape and abuse, but was never brought to court. Is he a lead?_ - MH

_I'll ask you politely to release Mr. Argall, before I lose my patience._ - EL

"You're going to be meeting a friend of mine very shortly, Mr. Angall. His name is Inspetctor Greg Lestrade, and he'll be taking care of you for a while. He's already been phoned." You tossed your phone up in the air and caught it again. "Thank you for your most _gracious_ cooperation."

_A woman without patience is an easy case solved._ - SH

The sounds of sirens in the distance made Argall turn pale as a sheet.

_You'll regret you tested me, Sherlock Holmes._ - EL

* * *

Next part up soon


	18. Chapter 18

I'm a terrible person, I know. Posting three chapters in one day and not any the next. But I have an excuse I was watching Sign of Three (so many feels) and I was just really not satisfied with this chapter. Ergh I'm still not very pleased with it but idk how you guys will like it so let's see.

Please please please give me feedback on this because I'm really unsure about it but I'm not sure what I can do to fix it

This is kind of dark because of John's nightmares but I mean _I'm_ not triggered by it so I don't think I need a trigger warning but I'm thinking about changing the rating to M just to be safe idk

Anyway, enjoy x

* * *

"...Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we're both quite alright. John's got a bit of a bump on the head, but he'll be alright, the swelling has already gone down almost completely." You paced around the bedroom, your phone held to your ear. "Absolutely not. The inner wall has some damage, but it'll be easily fixed with some plaster. I can do it before you even get back. No, no, the blood came right up. Not even a smudge. I promise." You glanced at me. "He's doing much better now. He just took some pain pills and iced it to help with the swelling. Yes, I'll keep an eye on him. Enjoy the rest of your holiday, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, Merry Christmas. Goodbye."

You sighed, sinking onto the bed at my feet.

"Is she enjoying Holland?" I asked, softly.

"She seems to be having a grand time." You nodded, looking over me. Your expression was all too familiar. Searching for a problem. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted." I let out a long breath. "But I don't feel like sleeping."

"That's understandable. You've been through a lot of trauma today. You need to relax." You reached over and smoothed my hair back, careful around the small bump on my head. I pushed you away.

"I don't get it, Sherlock," I whispered, drawing my knees to my chest.

"What?"

"What does all this mean, Sherlock? Is this Moriarty? Is someone trying to take Moriarty's place?" I put my head in my hands. "Is this what's left of his web? Are you still entangled in it? Is that why these things have been happening? What do these people want? Are we in danger?"

You moved closer to me, rubbing my back gently.

"John, don't think about these things now. I'll get to the bottom of this." You put a finger underneath my chin and turned my head toward yours. "I'll take care of you."

"How can you take care of me when you can't even take care of yourself."

"I'll focus all my attention on this case. I'll investigate, I'll track them down, I'll do whatever I have to do to stop them before they hurt anyone else. Before they have a chance to hurt us again. I promise."

You stroked my cheek, sadness glistening in your icy blue eyes.

"I know now what happened, John. I know what's wrong. You were drugged, you were poisoned that night. That drug triggered a relapse, John, it upset your chemical balance and your emotional stability and caused you to fall back into depression. It all makes sense now. Whoever these people are, they did this to you. They drugged you because of me, and I am so, so sorry, John. It's my fault that you've been getting worse, it's my fault that you've been having these attacks and I'm going to do everything in my power to find these people and to stop them, to keep you safe, to bring you _closure_, so you can get better. Alright?" You put your hands on my arms.

I smiled hopelessly and shook my head. "I'm not depressed, Sherlock, I'm not, really."

"It's _relapse_, John."

"No, Sherlock! Why don't you just listen to me!" I looked at him, desperate, with tears starting to brim in the corners of my eyes. "This isn't the same! After you died, I was depressed, I was suicidal, I wanted to die so badly, my entire body would ache. I know how it feels to be depressed. This is... strange. There's something wrong. There's something fucked up with this entire case, everything, everything is fucked up. It's so fucked up, Sherlock, and I... I just, I know my own feelings. But I can't understand this, Sherlock."

You smiled sadly. "No one can understand it, John."

I covered my face. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

You gently moved my arm from my face and cupped my cheek, bringing my lips up to yours. My stomach was tight with sadness, but your lips were like fire, like ice across a fresh burn. It stung wherever you touched me, but you soothed me. You pressed me against the sheets, your hands roaming across my body, sliding beneath my jumper and pushing it over my head. Your skin was a drug, and I craved every drop.

I felt alone, so horrifyingly alone, and so afraid. You were all I wanted.

Vulnerable, I opened up to you, wrapping my arms around your bare chest, pulling you close to me, feeling your heat sear my skin. I panted for you, my nails digging into your back. My heart was racing, my trembling fingers touching your neck, your chest, your waist. The room became a sun, burning, pressing its heat on me from every side. I cried out, panting, begging you to stop, rocking back against you. Fear rocketed through my veins.

"It's asphyxia, _asphyxia_," You shouted, holding my head. "_Asphyxia_, John... John..."

I couldn't breathe. I reached out for you, torn between the pleasure and the panic fighting for control. I didn't realize I was crying. Everything was a blur. You were cradling me now, stroking my hair, whispering to me as I laid there, cold, naked, shivering in the darkness. I was throwing up. Warmth flooded out my mouth and my nose. I was spinning. I was dying. I was flying. I was falling.

* * *

My wrists burned; sliced open, pouring blood. I had the knife in my hand, my shaking, pale bathroom surrounded me, the lights nearly blinding me. My stomach rolled with the smell of hot blood and smoking flesh. I reached for the wall, leaving a long smear of red behind. The room was too hot, it was closing in around me. I clawed at my throat, trying to breathe, but I only smeared blood across my skin.

I stumbled to the sink and turned on the tap, but the water was boiling, too hot to touch. I tried to cry, to scream, to make a sound, but my throat was dry as a bone, scorched by the heat. My wounds kept pumping blood, and it dried on the floor, on the walls, on my body. I covered my eyes with my hands, but I could see nothing but blood. The rolling hills littered with bodies, human bodies. Bodies of men who died because of me. Death comes to everyone, you had said. Embrace it when it comes. Maybe this was the death that I deserved.

* * *

Your fingers, through my hair. Your voice, in my head. "_It's just a dream. Asphyxia_."

* * *

Then, I was in the suicide ward. I recognized it immediately, the small, bleak room with all the corners rounded off. Just seeing the room made my heart drop, dread lacing its fingers in my throat. It was a horrifying place. The nurses would come inside and look at me as if they were expecting me to drop dead any minute. I wanted to leave, to take a walk, to visit a café, to talk to Lestrade, to see Mycroft, to go home, but no one would listen to me. I could scream for years at the blank walls and there would be nothing but a sedative to answer me. I hated myself. I hated that room. I slammed my head against that door, that wretched, awful door, until I saw stars. I blamed everything on that room. That room. When really, the problem wasn't the room, it was the monster locked inside.

It was a slithering, crawling monster, one with a name. Asphyxia. That's what you called it. I could see it, sliding into my vision, its slimy arms tracing patterns across my skin. It smiled at me, whispering sweet sentiments; with a swell of pain it bit down on my mind, churning, spewing out nightmares and visions and psychosomatic tortures beyond anything I'd ever felt before.

* * *

I screamed. You jolted. You cried. I trembled.

* * *

You were there, every time. When I would turn, there you were. When I was sitting by myself, you were right there beside me. When I was walking, you were talking to me, striding along. When I was cold, you were there to warm me. When I was alone, you made sure I wasn't lonely. When I was sad, you cheered me up. When I couldn't take it anymore, you were the one who was there, whispering that I can live and breathe another day.

But you weren't there, really. You were on the pavement of St. Bart's, blood soaking your skin.

* * *

When I woke again, I spilled blood, tears, and vomit onto the floor, coughing and sobbing hysterically.

I was so dizzy and disoriented, I could hardly tell my right hand from my left. Cold sweat soaked the sheets around me, making them uncomfortable and sticky. You were asleep beside me, still as a stone. You were exhausted. It was four o'clock in the morning, Christmas morning. This wasn't a good way to begin the holidays, I couldn't help but think, as I fell back against the bed.

As my head cleared, my raw eyes scanned through the darkness, still clouded by intense sickness and grief.

Only one thought. Only one, menacing thought, in a scream louder than death itself.

_It was back._

_The monster was back._

* * *

(feedback plz)

Next part up soon x


	19. Chapter 19

Hey guys thanks sm for the reviews! I'm glad my insecurities were just mine I guess

And I know I don't usually reply to reviews but I actually did chuckle at yours because I totally agree with your statement that everything gets better with some hot love-making but I swore I wouldn't turn this into a porn so I'll just have to try harder to up the chem between Sherlock and John and satisfy your (and my own) desires

Thanks for the feedback and the follows and the favorites I seriously love you all

Here's a lighter chapter to make up for the dark one last time

Enjoy xx

* * *

Christmas began with a dreary morning, gray skies and cold winds threatening to dump even more snow. Most people look forward to a "White Christmas", but I don't think London had that mind-set this year. I surely didn't. The house was cold, and I was shivering on my side of the bed. Somehow I had squirmed as close to the edge as I could, curled over the end of the blanket. I glanced at the clock on the side-table. 7:40.

I closed my eyes again, pressing my face into my pillow and exhaling slowly. Just a few minutes later, I felt you stir on your side, and your hands moved over to my back. I flinched; they were cold.

"Are you awake?" You sat up and leaned over me, rubbing your hand across my arm.

"Technically," I sighed.

"How are you feeling?"

Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the ceiling. "Shitty," I answered quietly.

"I see you left a... Christmas gift, on the floor." You looked over the edge of the bed at the little puddle of vomit I was too exhausted to clean up last night.

"Sorry. I'll clean it later."

"It's fine." You brushed your lips against my forehead. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," I mumbled.

"Are you still feeling ill?"

"No."

"Do you want to get up?"

"Not necessarily."

You pursed your lips, but laid down beside me and put an arm around my waist. "Then I'll lay with you until you're ready."

I sighed, closing my eyes and letting my mind clear for just a few extra minutes before the day began.

* * *

You were more concerned about me than I thought. While I cleaned off in the shower, you scrubbed up the soiled floor in the bedroom and started breakfast. I could smell the eggs from the bathroom, even if the burnt parts were more prominent than the rest. I couldn't remember the last time you made breakfast, or any kind of food aside from tea. You completely destroyed my egg in an attempt to make it the way I do, but you had a sort of pride on your face when you offered it to me, so I didn't mention it. You made yourself toast, and fed the dog, who I had almost forgotten about, nesting underneath my armchair.

"Mycroft said he would stop by in the afternoon, some time before we leave for Anderson's," You mentioned, as I sat down.

"Oh. Alright." My appetite was nonexistent, but I began on my egg.

"Coffee. I forgot the coffee." You jumped out of your chair and grabbed my cup.

"It's fine, Sherlock, sit down." I shot him a smile, forking the egg. "I'm not in a coffee kind of mood."

"You do need to take your medicine, though. What would you like? Water? Juice? Milk?" You opened the fridge and pushed a foot out of the way to look inside. "Nevermind about the milk."

"Water is fine."

"Alright." You closed the fridge and turned on the tap. "How is your egg?"

"It's, em... Good. Thank you." I turned a piece over. It was an uncomfortable shade of burnt brown on the bottom. But I felt you watching me and I put it into my mouth. It crunched. "Mm."

You smiled and turned back, grabbing my bottle of medication from the upper cabinet. You took the pleasure of taking the pills out yourself, and laying them in front of me beside my glass. "There are only about two doses left. You didn't make another appointment, did you?"

I swallowed. "I was a little preoccupied yesterday. It slipped my mind."

"No problem. I'll call the hospital tomorrow. No doubt the doctor would be on Christmas vacation today." You sat down and munched on your toast.

We ate quietly for a few minutes, listening to the soft crackle of the fireplace. You finished before I did, and sat back in your chair, watching me not unlike a bird watches its prey. I made a face, and started to say something, but your voice trumped mine.

"Merry Christmas, John," You said, and got up. I raised an eyebrow as you disappeared into the next room, and returned with a box.

"...Is that a Christmas present?" I asked, more than a little surprised.

"Yes. You didn't think I would forget, did you?" You shook the box. "It's for you."

I set my fork down and pushed the plate away, taking the box as you handed it to me. I set in on the table. The wrapping wasn't supreme, but I was still reeling from the fact that you had actually gotten me a gift. I ran my thumb under the crease of the paper and pulled it open.

"It isn't a test, John, just pull it off," You groaned.

"Well, sorry. Jesus." I tore off the wrapping paper, balling it up and setting it down beside me. Maybe I could discreetly throw away the rest of the egg with it. The tape came up easily, and I reached in to remove the contents of the box. I could see the glee written all over your face.

It was a Christmas jumper, a red one, with red and white details and little moose. I unfolded it and looked at it, chuckling a little. It was exactly my size, and looked very comfortable. The fabric was soft and flexible, rather than stiff like my other jumpers.

"Thank you, Sherlock. It's wonderful." I held it to my nose. It smelled like packaging and fresh wool.

"I'm glad you like it. I had to ask Mrs. Hudson for her opinion, since I'm not all to knowledgable in the realm of jumper fashion." You smiled. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." I put the jumper back in its box and got up to hug you. "I guess I should get your gift now, too, hmm."

"Yes, please."

I walked over to the mantle, where I had left the white-wrapped box. I wasn't going to try to fool Sherlock Holmes by hiding your gift, though I did have it professionally wrapped so that you had no chance of seeing what it was before it was covered. I handed it to you, and you juggled it in your hand with a smirk.

"Do you want me to guess what it is before I open it?"

"You'll probably get it in your first guess," I answered, taking my seat.

"It's very likely a science kit of some sort, a microscope or set glass scapels. I did mention that I needed new dissection tools several times, I'd assume you got the hint."

"I got the hint." I briefly remembered all the times when you talked about the dissection tools, whether we were at home or at a crime scene or doing the groceries or in a museum.

You unwrapped the box and popped your eyebrows, looking over at all the different sides. "Perfect. I've been needing new autoclavable probes."

"That isn't all. Open the box, Sherlock."

I sat back, and you looked up at me, a wild look of surprise on your face. I had done everything possible to make sure the box looked just like it had when I bought it, even after tampering with the inside. And it worked; I hadn't fooled Sherlock Holmes, but I sure did surprise him. You pulled the tape off and opened the lid of the box, chuckling as you pulled out a small velvet box tied with a ribbon, and set the dissection tools down.

"What is this, John?" You asked, looking over all the different sides of the box.

"Open it and see."

You eagerly pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. Your eyes lit up when you saw it, and pulled it out of the box. Dangling from a gold chain was a pocketwatch, four inches in diameter, inlaid with true yellow gold. Engraved on the back was your name, and underneath "from John". It was a marvelous find from a pawn shop on the other side of town, and I put a lot of work into it to get it cleaned up and the words done on the back. But your expression as you looked over it made it all worthwhile.

"Wow," was all you said, your mouth gaping open slightly.

"I thought you might like it, I laughed."

You held it up to the light, studying it intensely. For a moment I was afraid you would find some kind of defect in it, something that I missed, something only your eyes would spot. But you kept your expression of shock, and moved on to study the chain.

"This is real gold," You said, half a question and half a statement.

"Yes, I was assured of it."

"Wow." You closed your mouth and set the watch back in its little box, your eyes still glowing. "Wow, John, that's... fantastic."

I smiled a little, proud of my good work. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas."

You got up and came over to me, pulling me into a kiss.

* * *

Mycroft came over around three o'clock in the afternoon, while I was starting to get ready for the dinner. You spent nearly his entire time showing off your watch, yapping on his ear about all the different details of it. Evidently the watch was from early in the 20th century, proven by the type of detailing and brand of watch. (I was glad that the shop owner wasn't aware of that, or I might not have been able to buy it at such a bargain.) Mycroft wasn't all too interested, but he put up with it for a short time, and I suspected it was because of the holiday.

I came out of the bedroom wearing my jumper, and he knew immediately where it had come from. "You should count yourself lucky, Sherlock had never put much thought into buying gifts before," He commented.

"Well, he's gotten better about it." I smoothed out the jumper.

"No, he hasn't. He's just gotten lucky this time."

You kicked your brother in the shin. "Shut up, Mycroft."

He smirked, and the two exchanged glares. I threw up my hands and declared "I don't want to know" before walking back into the kitchen.

"Do you and your fiancé have plans for Christmas supper, then, John?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject.

"Can't you look at me and deduce that for yourself?" I countered.

"It was a friendly question, not some kind of insult," He scoffed.

"Well, sorry, then. I never know with you."

He looked miffed, and you chuckled at him.

"My train leaves in less than an hour, I had better be going, not that you two aren't the most gracious of company." Mycroft stood, tapping his umbrella against the floor. He shook hands with his brother before putting on his coat. "How did you like your gift, John?"

"I enjoyed it very much, obviously." I motioned to my shirt.

"No, no. My gift."

"Your gift?"

"Yes. The one you left from the party."

"Oh. Oh, that gift. Yes." I cleared my throat. "It was, er, very thoughtful of you, Mycroft. Thank you."

"You're very welcome." He gave me a fake smile. "You didn't open it, did you."

"No, I didn't. I'm not even sure where it went." I started to look around the kitchen. Now that I thought about it, I had absolutely no clue where that pesky box had ended up. Maybe Gladstone had gotten to it. I decided not to mention that to Mycroft.

"Well, whenever you do open it, let me know." He nodded to me, and made his way out the door.

After he had gone and the door swung closed, I made a short noise of frustration. "I really don't know where the gift is, Sherlock. Did you put it somewhere? I feel awful that we never even opened it, after Mycroft went through the trouble of getting it for us."

"Don't get too worked up. Knowing Mycroft it's probably just something ordinary, a cologne or set of socks." You spun your watch, lounged in your armchair.

"But it's still a gift." I picked through your bundles of books. "You haven't seen it?"

"No, I haven't."

I pursed my lips, a cold feeling in my stomach somehow linking the disappearance of the gift with the burglary from a few days ago, or the men storming into our house yesterday morning. In fact, this whole fiasco had started after Mycroft mentioned the gift. We had gone to get the gift when I was somehow poisoned. Did all this have something to do with Mycroft, or his gift?

"John?" You twisted in your chair, watching me. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." I rubbed my forehead, as a dizzy feeling settled on me.

* * *

Next part up soon


	20. Chapter 20

Holy heck what chapter is this? 20? Wasn't I writing Chapter 4 like yesterday ?!

While I wrap my mind around this let me thank all the followers and reviewers and favorite-rs for giving this story the boost you gave it you're all awesome

I just hit 10K views today too wow such number much great

Currently I'm working on a special present-type short story for when I hit 100 followers I might be a little excited can you tell

Here you are the twentieth chapter in my little periodical please enjoy xx

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My appetite still hadn't returned to me, but I managed to stomach a portion of the food from Anderson's Christmas dinner. His party was lively and warm - obviously Anderson had cleaned quite a bit for his company. Dressed up, too. Trimmed his beard and whatnot. The fireplace burned brightly with a friendly sort of glow around it. Molly and Tom had come, along with Sarah Donovan, Lestrade and Anne, several other members of Lestrade's divison, and their various guests. You and I were the only non-heterosexual couple, and we earned ourselves a handful of snide comments, but you shrugged them off.

You at least you seemed to be enjoying yourself. You made conversation with Anderson and his friends, showed off your pocketwatch, and was now enveloped in an extremely competitive game of darts. Everyone was waiting to see if it would be you, Sally, or Lestrade who won the game. Bets were made and drinks were poured.

All the noise was making my head pound, so I stayed nearer the wall with a tall mug of hot apple cider. I had deliberately avoided alcohol, recalling how sick I was last night and not necessarily wanting to revisit it again. I was also pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be drinking alcohol while on anxiety medication. On the other hand, it seemed like every time I looked at you, your glass of wine had been refilled. But you were laughing and joking, and I was glad. This whole thing had taken its toll on you, too, I reminded myself. You needed some time away from it all. Away from me.

While the noise from the game escalated, Anne noticed me and found her way over. She had a glass of champagne in her hand, and smiled brightly at me. "You aren't going to watch?" She asked.

"No. Too loud. I'll probably hear all about it from Sherlock later, anyway." I flashed her a grin, sipping at my cider.

"That's true." She smoothed out her dress and sat beside me. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright. A little off is all. It might just be the racket."

"I'm sorry." She frowned, then stretched her neck to look around. "I think Anderson has a terrace... Yes, there. Do you want to go out there? It'll be quieter."

"Oh, alright, that sounds nice." I stood up, and she followed.

"Let me get your coat for you, John, wouldn't want you to catch cold, after all."

Anne went off toward the coat rack, and I went toward the glass doors that led to Anderson's limited balcony. The roof had kept most the snow off, but I swept a few clumps off the railing. The large snowflakes were floating down slowly, and the sour weather looked gorgeous against the backdrop of the city street. A green sofa stood two paces to my left, and I went over to sit down just as Anne slid the door closed behind her.

"There you are," She handed the coat to me.

"Thank you, sweetheart." I swung the coat over my shoulders, clutching my steaming mug in my lap.

Anne gave a short giggle, taking her seat beside me, careful with her own glass. "Is this better?"

"Yes, much better. It's very nice."

"It is, isn't it? If I lived here, I'd never leave the balcony. And the street looks so pretty at this time of night." Her eyes sparkled as she watched the snow fall. The curls in her hair caught caught stray snowflakes as they passed. "I could stay up here for hours and hours."

I nodded, momentarily caught gazing at Anne. No matter how long I looked, I couldn't find a single flaw in her. Her eyes were a romantic shade of dark green, reflecting all the shades and shadows of the city street. Her nose was small and straight, lips full and soft. Her skin was white as porcelain, smooth, without a single blemish or scar. She was slim and athletic, with small breasts and a thin waist, accented by her form-fitting knit dress. Enough cleavage to attract, but not too much to be indecent. Her collarbones were soft and very sexy. I realized she was looking at me, and I quickly turned away, my ears going pink.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, quietly.

"No, no, not at all," I stammered, coughing to clear my throat.

"Am I bothering you? I can leave you alone if that's what you-"

"No, you're not bothering me. You can stay." I turned and smiled at her. "You're pleasant company."

She beamed. "Aw, thank you."

"But... I'm sorry, it's been on my mind. How does a man like Lestrade catch the eye of a girl like you? I mean, you're absolutely stunning. You don't look like you could be a day over twenty-five. I know Lestrade has some charm to him but I can hardly imagine a dame like yourself going with him without some kind of alternate intentions."

Anne made a strange face, and I was afraid I had offended her.

"Not that I would think you were a whore or anything like that, I'm just saying that you could have your pick of the richest or most beautiful men in London, yet you pick Lestrade. Why Lestrade? Is he really so attractive to you?"

She turned forward, her lips parting slightly, but no words came out. She sat like that for a little while, blankly studying the base of the railing. I grew more and more confused the longer Anne kept silent, until she looked at me, a sliver of sadness in her eye.

"I don't know, John." She chuckled, but it was hollow. "Can we really explain it? Can you explain why you're in love with a raging genius sociopath?"

"I guess not." I took a gulp of cider. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You're fine." She sighed. "I'm not trying to be strange, I guess... I just don't really know what I'm thinking."

"Are things not working out with Greg?"

"No, things are fine with Greg. He's a great guy. A great friend."

"But not a great boyfriend?"

"I don't know."

Anne leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. Her breath made little white clouds in the chilly air. I could tell that she was sad, but I was afraid that I would make her more upset trying to cheer her up (I had never really figured that out with women, maybe that was why I have so many ex-girlfriends). But I did reach over and rub her back a little, and she looked up at me with a trace of a smile.

"I might be young on the outside, but I feel like an old woman on the inside," She chuckled, sitting up again. Her smile faded quickly. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

"What do you mean?"

She locked eyes with me.

"Regret," She said with an exhale.

I was tempted to assure her that one empty relationship wasn't the true definition of regret, but the flicker in her gaze seemed to betray something deeper. I kept quiet, studying her, trying to read her the way Sherlock did. Instead of focusing on her beauty, I looked for her human features. Her hair and make-up were done without mistake, but I figured any young woman with time could learn to do it this way. Her nails were professionally done, so she wanted to impress. The dress she wore was pretty but not particularly in-fashion, so she wasn't looking for a large group's acceptance. Probably a small, closed group or one person in particular. Nothing about her seemed suspicious or deceptive, in fact her whole demeanor and the way she held herself was very friendly and attractive. How in the world did Sherlock suspect her of foul play? Was it just jealousy he was feeling?

"You seem to look at me that way a lot, John," Anne mentioned, quizatively. "Your fiancé does the same thing, but his is only a glance. Yours lasts longer."

"Oh... I'm sorry." I blinked and looked at the floor.

"Can I talk to you about something, John?"

"Sure, anything."

"I might not be as good at deduction as Sherlock is, but John, you're starting to worry me. You look so sad, as if you're hurting. You haven't been sleeping well, have you? You've lost weight, even since I've known you. Look how your sweater hangs off your shoulders. I don't think Sherlock is one to get you a sweater that's too big for you. Your skin has gotten paler, too. Your eyes have lost their glow, they're just pale now. Pale and sad."

I turned forward, pursing my lips.

"Is something wrong, John? Something you can't say? It's upsetting me." She sighed. "You're a good man. You don't talk like someone who's clinically depressed."

Anger flooded through me. "I'm not depressed, alright? I'm only on medication because my damn doctor is forcing me onto it, that's what's making me lose weight and drains the color from my face and kills my appetite. I'm not depressed. I'm not."

"But you are sad."

"Of course I'm sad! Why wouldn't I be sad! My sodding doctor doesn't listen to a word from my mouth, and everyone around me seems to be so ready to accept me as the depressed and suicidal person that I'm not. It's a _lie_. Ugh. But I don't know how to get them to listen to me. Even Sherlock doesn't believe me, he's so convinced that I'm relapsing that he won't even give my opinion any thought. Do you know how frustrating that is? I want to get out of this but the more I struggle the tighter the trap closes around me."

My hands began to shake, and I leaned forward onto my knees, pumping my foot. I felt Anne watching me, but I knew that she was only there to diagnose me too, in her own way.

"See, even you don't believe me," I snapped.

"No, John." She set a hand on my shoulder. "I do."

I looked up at her, surprised.

"Look, John. I want to be able to talk to you, privately. Somewhere Sherlock and Lestrade aren't around to keep eyes and ears on us." Her eyes sparkled. "I want to help you, John."

"We're away from them now, aren't we? We're alone out here."

"More alone. Farther away. Where there's no chance of them coming across us."

I studied her face, but there wasn't anything that betrayed any kind of flirtation or sexual advances. She looked innocent, even naive; eager to be of some help or comfort to me. It was refreshing, but I couldn't shake your disproving expression from my mind.

"You know what they'd think of that," I pursed my lips.

"Of course we won't do anything indecent," She stammered, playing with the hem of her dress nervously. "just talk. I feel like having Lestrade around puts you under too much stress, he can be a little judgemental sometimes. And I have a feeling that it'll be easier for you to open up without Sherlock around." She tilted her head, her eyebrows knitting. "I want to help you."

"Thank you, Anne." I nodded, smiling with relief. "We'll schedule a time."

"Good." She pulled out her phone and handed it to me, so that I could put in my number.

In that time, you had noticed I was gone, and thrust the upper half of your body onto the balcony. You looked angry and a little tipsy, I had to figure you had lost your game of darts. Your anger visibly grew when you saw who my sitting partner was, stalking out and standing before us.

"What are you doing, John." You asked, jaw tight.

"Talking with Anne," I answered, standing up.

"Come inside. You've put yourself in enough danger as it is."

"Danger?"

"Mr. Holmes," Anne piped up, her voice reasonably strong. "I offered to sit out here with John because he wasn't feeling well. He was bothered by the noise of the game you were hosting, so we came out here, where it was quieter-"

"Shut up, Winterfield," You snapped, pinching your fingers in the air.

"Whitefield," She coughed.

"Just because you have your pretty green eyes or your long _flowing_ red hair does not mean your can whore and prance yourself in front of an engaged man. I would suggest that you leave. Now."

"I don't have to take slander from you, Sherlock." She responded, standing. Her icy tone set you even further ablaze.

"But you will _listen_ to me, _Anne_." You took a step toward her, and for a moment fear shot up that you would either hit her or grab her. You did neither, only holding your face close to hers. "You may think you have John wrapped around your tiny, manicured fingers but you cannot pull a sheet over _my_ eyes. You will stay _away_ from John. I have no reservations about striking women who I deem as threats to the well-being of my fiancé."

"Hit me, then, if you think I'm such a threat. Tell me what you think that will accomplish." She crossed her arms over her waist. "I'm trying to _help_ John."

"Don't bother trying to lie to me, you'll find out very quickly that it doesn't work."

"I'm not lying to you."

"_Get out_."

Her nostrils flared, just slightly. She gave me an apologetic glance, then ducked into the house.

"What the _hell was that_, Sherlock?!" I shouted, giving you a sharp nudge in the arm.

You turned all your hot fury onto me. "_You will stay away from her,_ John. I thought I could trust you in a house crowded full of people, but I guess I can't, even then. How am I supposed to _trust_ you, John?"

"Well obviously you had no trust in me in the first place, since it's such a _major_ offense for me to be sitting and talking with a respectable young woman, _and girlfriend of my friend_, in a house full of crowded people."

"You were secluded, tucked away in a balcony where no one could see you, no one could hear you."

"We were sitting on opposite sides of the sofa! Bundled in our coats! Watching the snow! _Jesus Christ_, what is wrong with you, Sherlock?" I sat down on the sofa again, rubbing my forehead. Red hot emotion was washing through, and it made me dizzy.

"What's wrong with me? _What's wrong with me?_ _Nothing_ is fucking wrong with me, John. _Tell me_ what's fucking wrong with me."

You threw your mug at the outer wall of the house and it shattered, shards flying everywhere. Fear was slowly replacing my anger.

"Okay, Sherlock. Okay. Calm down." I put up my hands. "You've had too much to drink."

"Like _hell_ I've had too much to drink." You glared at me, and stormed back inside. I got up quickly, leaning against the wall as I followed you inside.

Obviously your voice had carried into the house, because most of the guests were quiet, watching as your head bobbed above the rest, headed toward the door. I stumbled along behind you, putting the dizziness aside, and calling your name every few seconds. Lestrade and Anne were nowhere in sight. Molly tried to step in to stop you, but you pushed her aside. You reached for your coat and swung it on as you opened the door.

"Sherlock, please, wait." I put a hand on your arm, but you slapped it away, your eyes like burning coals.

"Find your own way home," You growled, slamming the door behind you.

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Please review please please pretty please

Next part up soon


	21. Chapter 21

Hey guys, sorry this update came so late. I had kind of a low weekend and writing for this was hard, so I put it away for a little while. Hopefully this chapter will amount to the rest, though. Enjoy x

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Lestrade and Anne saw me back to Baker Street that night. Greg went off at me about how you needed to be more mature when you interact with me, and that I should call him if you were acting up again. Both him and Anne were worried about letting me go home, since Mrs. Hudson was in Holland and I would be alone with an angry fiancé. But I let them relax and told them I would text that everything was good once I got inside. As the cab pulled up before 221B, Anne gave me a little hug and said goodnight.

I stepped up and unlocked the door, waving to the cab as it drove off. Gladdie was waiting for me behind the door, making little whimpering sounds. I reached down to pet him, closing the door behind me.

The house was dark. I assumed you had gone to bed, given it was almost midnight. The dog was quivering, cold and unable to get up the stairs to the warm carpet. I scooped him up and went into the flat, poking my head briefly into the living room. No sign of you.

Instead of going into your bedroom, I went up to mine, carrying Gladdie with me. The room was still mostly furnished, even though it had been out-of-use since I started sleeping with you. There were small scratch marks on the floor from the chair you had given your guest the other day, but besides that there were no signs that any criminal had been inside. I flipped the light on and made sure the windows were properly closed and locked.

My phone vibrated. _Everything alright?_ - GL

_Yes. He's asleep._ - JW

_Okay. Let me know if you need anything._ - GL

_Thank you_. - JW

I sighed, sitting down on my bed and letting Gladdie onto the covers. He sniffed around, and laid up against the pillow. In passing I noticed that there was a small smudge of blood on the pillowcase, so I replaced it and wrung the other out in the bathroom.

It was too quiet. There was an uncomfortable absense of you. No soft, rythmic breathing, no oblong shape tucked under the sheets. I hadn't spent too long in your bed, but I still missed it. I changed into my nightclothes without any comment of yours on my waistline. I slipped into bed without your arm stretching around my chest. Gladstone did wriggle down into the blankets, though, curling against my hip and falling fast asleep, while I vacantly stared at the ceiling. The sheets smelled like detergent and dust. The smell of you was gone, and that might've made me the saddest of all.

* * *

I hardly dreamt. I could see your shadow, but I couldn't touch you. Everything was cold, and I was alone.

* * *

The windows were bright when I woke up. There was no clock in the room, but I picked up my phone and read the time there. 8:44. Well, at least I had slept a decent amount without vomitting up my liver. Gladdie was already awake and trotting around on the covers. I had to pick him up and carry him off the bed.

There were no noises coming from downstairs, so I crept slowly down the staircase and put my head through the door of the flat. There was no sign of you, but a note stood erect in the middle of the table. _John_ was scrawled across the front, in your handwriting. I figured I had might as well read it.

_Gone out investigating. Brixton. Be back tonight. Possibly late. Don't stay up._  
_Made a reservation with your doctor, you're due there at 2. Bring paperwork._  
_Sherlock_

"How thoughtful of you," I muttered, folding the page again and sticking it in the pocket of my robe.

I continued with my morning, making breakfast and cleaning up around, wondering if you were avoiding me, or if I hoped you were.

* * *

With all necessary politeness aside, I hated my doctor from the core of my being. Part of it may have been pride, being a doctor myself. I have a bit of a high standard since I had medical training myself. But, alas, doctors can't be their own doctors for some strange and pathetic reason. So I was left with this guy. The same guy who sentenced me to the suicide ward. I stayed with him because my therapist asked me to, not because of my own willingness.

He seemed to sense my intense hatred of him, because he entered the room cautiously, his clipboard strategically placed between him and I. "Good afternoon, John," He smiled, taking a seat. "How are you feeling?"

"Same as ever," I grumbled.

"The nurse said you were putting up a bit of a fight," He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yes. She was borderline harassing me."

"She was trying to get a blood sample." The doctor sighed. "Well, your blood is clear of any signs of infection or drug use. Your blood pressure is still running a little high, probably due anxiety." He leaned back, crossing his legs and balancing the clipboard on his knee. "Let's get straight to the point, then, John. Have you been experiencing more panic attacks?"

"I'd prefer not to call them panic attacks," I stated.

"Then you have had more."

"I didn't say that."

"How many?"

"I didn't say that!"

He leaned forward. "John, I'm going to ask you to be honest with me. If you can't do that, I'll have to take measures to ensure your health and safety."

"You mean you'll lock me in a white room until I behave."

"Is that why you're refusing to answer my questions? You're still holding a grudge?"

"No. I just don't trust you."

"Just so you know, John, the suicide ward is not an easy solution for me. It's the last resort. If you don't comply with me I'll have to start looking to your fiancé for answers instead of to you. You told Mrs. Thompson that you would like more of a voice, didn't you? You can do that by proving to us that you are mentally sound and able to look after yourself. You cannot do that by refusing to talk to me."

My nostrils flared, but I figured I had already dug myself a deep enough hole, and listened to him.

"I'll ask again. Have you had any more panic attacks since last we met?"

"They're not-... Yes. I have."

"How many?"

"...Two. Well, twice that I've actually passed out. Another time I just lost my balance. I did the breathing exercises, though, and it eventually went away."

"Good. Very good." He started writing on his clipboard. He had it angled so that I couldn't see it. Smart bastard. "Do you remember what days these panic attacks occurred?"

"One right after my appointment with Thompson. I almost passed out on the next day. And the third was on Christmas Eve."

"So they happen frequently, then?"

"...I guess."

"Have you noticed any improvement since being on the medication I've prescribed?"

"None at all."

"None? Any _differences_?"

"Yes. A lack of appetite, lack of energy. Near-constant fatigue and exhaustion. Trouble sleeping. And when I do sleep, there are nightmares. Terrible nightmares. Nausea, tremors, pain in my right side, shoulder and leg. Hallucinations. Paranoia."

He kept scribbling, his eyebrows knitting sadly. "I'm sorry you're having such trouble, John."

"If you'd take me off the medication, I'd improve."

The doctor clicked his pen. "I think, John, that you should try to rearrange your thinking. Instead of blaming the medication for your symptoms, you should assign them to the real problem. You may not have come to terms with it yet, but you're relapsing. It's completely evident."

"I'm not relapsing."

"You can deny it all you want to, John, but I firmly believe that that's what is causing you to suffer so badly. You haven't given the medication time to work effectively. I think that if you would just give it a chance that you would be surprised at how it works."

"It didn't work last time."

"We administered it too late last time. It didn't have time to take effect, and that's what we're trying to avoid in this case. Though, we might have already been too late." He clicked his pen again - a nasty habit, really. "It isn't a quick fix, John. You can't take a pill and all your problems will melt away. It takes time, it takes effort, and it takes opening up and being honest with me and with Ella."

"Bollocks," I muttered.

"It's the only way you can become healthy again."

"No, it's not. Take me off the medicine, treat me like a person instead of a mental case, and let me live my own god-damned life."

"Let the medicine do its work, John. It takes at least a month or two to properly-"

"I can't _live_ like this for a month, much less anything more than that!" I gripped the paper cover of the hospital bed. "This medicine is completely tearing me apart. Emotionally and physically. I can hardly feel anything anymore except with horrible intensity. My limp has never been worse. I don't need this. There stress in my life, yes. There's _always_ stress. I've just gotten engaged, my relationship with my parents has died and been buried, there've been burglaries and bloody home invasions, for Christ's sake! This medication is making things so much worse, so much harder to handle. You need to take me off. Right now."

"You need to calm down, just calm down, and listen to me, John," The doctor said, quietly. "The medication will work. It just needs time."

"There is no time, doctor!" I yelled. "_There's no fucking time_."

He frowned, and started to write on his clipboard. Its angle lowered so that I could see his pen move. My hand started to shake as I read it.

_High-risk._  
_Increase dosage._  
_May require hospitalization._

When I saw that, I was done. I faintly recall shouting "sod this" at the doctor (repeatedly), but everything was a collective blur of anger and white-hot rage. I seized my coat from beside the door and stomped off down the hall, leaving the door gaping open behind me. I heard the doctor come running after me, telling me to stop, but I was boiling over and wanted nothing to do with anyone in the hospital at the present moment. All I could think about was that _room_, the room I was trying so hard to avoid.

But the doctor had pressed the emergency service button, and several nurses now joined his brigade. One male nurse grabbed my arm, and in reflex I connected my fist to the side of his head. It took three nurses and the doctor to hold me down while they administered a sedative. The world moved a little slower as they walked me back to the office.

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Next part up soon


	22. Chapter 22

His Last Vow was so good guys you need to go watch it if you haven't already

But the downside is we're on hiatus again until next Christmas

weeps

I guess we'll all just find our meaning in FanFiction then

Enjoy the next chapter

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The sedatives were just wearing off when you came out of the office. You had driven all the way from Brixton to retrieve me, after the hospital called. They wouldn't let me leave alone, calling me "high-risk", and so you had to come and bail me out per say. Of course the doctor had to have a private conversation with you before we left. The bastard. I hated him so much, it made my hand twitch just thinking about it.

You came and stood over me, a tint of annoyance in your forehead. "Come on, John. It's getting dark."

"Has everything been cleared up?" I lifted my head.

"More or less." You pulled a bottle of pills out of your sleeve, tossing them in the air. I grumbled when I saw them, but you paid no attention. "Let's go."

We went outside, where I shivered on the sidewalk while you hailed a cab. The memory of last night's dusty sheets were still crisp and clear in my memory, and the small scowl printed in your features hinted that you remembered it as much as I did. But I wasn't going to be the one to mention it. We didn't exchange a word, climbing into the cab, sitting on opposite sides, I bundled in my coat and you buried in your scarf.

I didn't want to bother with you. After the sedative's effects wore off, I felt more exhausted than ever. The sharp emotions were starting to reappear, cutting like a scapel deep into my skin. If you were going to continue to hold a grudge against me for last night's scene with Anne, then I was going to let you. You were behaving like a child, and I was not going to entertain it, not for one second.

A few silent minutes passed before you cleared your throat. "John."

"Yes?"

You massaged your lip with your tongue. "I realize now that my behavior at Anderson's last night was inappropriate and uncalled for. I don't know if you want to talk with me right now or not, but I'm just going to let you know that I'm not going to avoid you or ignore you. I hope you will forgive me."

I stared at you, and you turned to look out the window. More silence followed, and you still avoided my eyes.

With a sigh, I answered, "Of course. Of course I forgive you."

"Good."

"But don't ever do that again, you hear me? And you need to apologize to Anne."

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. "I'll apologize. But although I am sorry for my behavior, I still don't think you should be trusting that woman so easily. The way I treated the situation was wrong but nonetheless I'm worried about what kind of effect she'll have on you. I'd rather you not get involved with her so quickly."

"Okay."

A raised eyebrow. "What?"

"Okay. I'll be more careful. Sorry."

"...No defense? No terms of aggreement?"

I put my hands in my jacket pockets. "You're Sherlock Holmes, after all. You know better than I do. I'm just the blogger."

You looked confused, but didn't question it. "...Alright. Well, then. Do you want me to tell you what I found in Brixton?"

"Were you with Lestrade?"

"No, I was on my own."

"A case?"

"Yes. Technically it was a case." You turned your shoulders so they were angled toward me. "I borrowed Mycroft's computer and found some information on Argall, so that we could use him as a lead. He did a good job of clearing his paper trail since 2003, but there were still things that I could find. Friends, relatives, soldiers from his time spent in the military. A few of them lived in or around Brixton, and so I spent my time talking to them and interviewing them, reaping what I could on Argall, his personality, and what he would look for in an employer."

"Ah. Did you find anything useful?"

"Yes. A lot, actually. The people I interviewed said that he had many friends in high places, think ambassadors, foreign dignitaries, businessmen, wealthy men. He demands his pay high, so it couldn't have been someone devoid of any amount of money. All I need to do is narrow down the businesses involved in or affected by the crime web that have a reason to hold a massive grudge."

"Shouldn't be too hard."

"The fact that our mastermind in question went after you says that they have some sort of intelligence, as she has realized that you are a pressure point of mine. She is obviously in a position of management but is also under someone else's authority herself, whether it be in a corporation or an elite group. I'll have to do more work with my web at home to connect all these little pieces. The room in my mind palace is getting a little crowded."

"Your mind palace can get crowded?"

"Bogged, yes. Stress and information. Too many small details, too many options, too many ideas. They need to be on paper. They need to be out of my head." You rubbed your temples. "I've run out of nicotine patches."

"You look exhausted."

"I am. Running around in Brixton takes its toll." You turned to me. "You didn't come to bed last night."

I cleared my throat. "No. I slept upstairs."

"You should have come in."

"I didn't want to make you any angrier."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

You rubbed your eye, glancing back out the window.

* * *

We grabbed sandwiches from the Sub Shop on the curb before going up into our flat. I wasn't hungry, but I knew I would be sick if I didn't eat something. The hollow of your cheek told me that you were avoiding food again, much to your own disadvantage. You practically collapsed into your chair, leaving your coat and shoes on. I handed you your sandwich, and you glared at it for a moment before taking it.

"You look like a ghost," I noted, unwrapping my sub.

"You're one to talk," You grumbled, taking a bite.

I sighed and started to eat. I tried not to notice the paleness in your cheeks, or the unnatural quiver in your fingers. I refused to question it because I knew I couldn't handle it if you admitted to using your seven-per-cent solution again. The thought was like a small flame in the back of my mind, coaxing the emotions out again.

This was hurting you, too. Sometimes I forgot, but at times like these, it came back full-force. You suffered when I suffered. You weren't a machine, you were a man. A man who was watching his fiancé waste away, racing to solve the puzzle before something drastic happened.

_Something drastic_.

My stomach rolled with anxiety. I set the sub down until I could control it. The room lurked in my memory, like a leopard waiting to pounce.

"John?"

Your eyes were big, alert. You scanned my face. Looking for a problem.

I opened my mouth, my words forming as they came.

"You shot up, didn't you."

Your lips pushed flat, and I unwrapped more of my sandwich.

"I don't blame you. I probably would have too." I took a bite. "Last night or this morning?"

"...John, I..."

"Where'd you get the drugs? Do you have a stash?"

"No. No stash."

"Just that dose, then?"

"Yes."

"Alright." I kept eating.

"...You're not angry?"

"I'm not angry, Sherlock. I'm just sad."

A pang of guilt washed through your entire body. I could see it, visibly, starting with your eyes and moving down to your shoulders, your arms, your legs. I could almost feel your guilt in the pit of my stomach, it radiated so heavily off of you.

"I'm sorry," You said, quietly.

I shrugged and continued with my sub. You stood up, leaving the last few bites of the sub, and walked over to me, leaning over to place your lips on the top of my head. Then you walked back into the bedroom. When you came back, your coat and scarf were gone, replaced by a violin on your shoulder and a bow in your hand. You began the melody while walking through the kitchen, a soft, gentle tune. I recognized it, it was the song I had called my favorite a few weeks ago. I turned my head and watched you come back into the sitting room.

"Just relax for a little while, John," You said, your voice thick as you played, moving to your spot beside the window.

Leaning my head back in the chair, I stared at the ceiling as your sweet notes filled the air. I closed my eyes, willing my heart to slow down and the uneasiness to subside. You watched me, swaying slowly with the song, your bow caressing the strings. Sweet music, like a bird's song, against the fading light of the sunset. I could feel it in my bones.

* * *

I hadn't even noticed when you moved me into the bedroom. I could hear you, still in the other room, playing violin for short spurts while you thought, then stopping abruptly in the middle of a melody to adjust something on the web you had constructed on our living room wall. I was still in my day-clothes, bundled up in the blankets of your bed, but I didn't have the heart to get up and change.

My phone was vibrating on the end-table. Most likely that's what woke me. I reached for it, and turned it over to its face. A text.

_Hey, John, it's Anne. Is everything alright?_ - AW

I yawned and typed in a reply._ Yes. He's calmed down. Apologized, even._ - JW

Her reply came within a minute._ Oh, good! :) I'm glad. Did you still want to get together to talk? -_ AW

For a moment I thought about it. I had told you I would be more careful, but I wasn't actually planning on making any changes. But if it satisfied you if I told you I would be wary, maybe it would be an easy fix. I texted my reply.

_Sure. How does tomorrow sound_? - JW

_Tomorrow is perfect. I know a little place in Camden that would be lovely._ - AW

_Sounds good to me. Text me the address and I'll met you there. What time?_ - JW

_Is noon good for you? - _AW

_Here's the address._ - AW

_Yes, noon is good. I'll see you then._ - JW

_Looking forward to it! :)_ - AW

I closed my phone, then studied it and opened it again. Might as well delete the conversation (with the exception of the address), in case you find it and get upset with me again. I didn't really feel like having to explain my motives to you, anyway. You continued to scratch away at your web, and I laid back down, setting my phone on the end-table.

Quietly, submissively, I sank back into sleep.

* * *

Next part up soon


	23. Chapter 23

This chapter came really easily but I hope it's as good as the rest?

And for those who might be interested, I just published a short story about the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook. I'm kind of going out on a limb with it. I'd be flattered if you'd check it out, you can find it on my profile page

Enjoy the ride x

* * *

It was a little warmer the next morning. As I stepped from the cab, I let my coat hang open, enjoying the bright sunlight and lack of snow in the sky. The sidewalk was still decorated with slush and snow, but most of it had begun to melt. I avoided the puddles and made my way into Sam and Christa's Streetside Café, a cute little establishment on the corner of a busy street. People were buzzing in and around the restauraunt, but I saw Anne at a table through the window, and ducked inside to meet her.

She saw me across the room and smiled, motioning for me to come. As I got close she stood to hug me. "Hello, John. I'm glad you could make it."

"Me too. Sorry I'm a few minutes late. It took me some time to hail a cab." I hung my cane from the back of my chair and sat down across from her.

"No problem, no problem." She sat, and handed me the menu. "I've already decided, why don't you take a look. My treat."

"You don't have to cover me, I can pay." I glanced over the list. There was not a shred of appetite left in me, even though I hadn't eaten anything since my sub last night. "Are the salads any good?"

"Very good, I'm gettng the one with avacado."

"This bean one looks appetizing."

"Ooh, I like that one too. Is that what you want? I can go to the counter and order if you'd like."

I handed it to her. "Need me to come too?"

"No, no, you sit, relax. Have some water. I'll be right back." She put the menu in its holster and smiled, leaving the table and clicking her way up to the line.

For a second I scratched at the edges of my silver, then glanced back up to where Anne was standing, waiting patiently and examining the foodstuffs on display behind the glass counter. She was wearing a long knit shirt that fell about mid-thigh, with black leggings underneath, and tall heeled boots. A large mint green scarf was loosely tied around her neck and shoulders. Her maroon hair was straightened, with half of it tied up in a small braid that ran down the back. Her head turned toward me and I glanced away.

There was something different about her today. I couldn't put my finger on it, but her voice, the way she conducted herself, the way she moved, it just all seemed off. Like she had something on her mind, something that she was trying to hide. Or, maybe, something that she was trying to get me to see.

She came back a few minutes later. "Ordered, they'll bring it to us in a little while." She glanced at my glass of water. "Not thirsty?"

"Not really, no."

"Why don't you have a few sips. You're looking a little ashen."

I shrugged and took it, swallowing a mouthful or two.

"So, how have you been, John? Has everything with Sherlock been sorted out?"

"Most of it. He's still focused on trying to track down that fellow who broke into our house, so I don't think being angry with me is his first priority." I pursed my lips, setting the glass down.

"I see. Well you can give him my apologies for anything I did to make him angry."

"It's fine, Anne. You did nothing wrong, he just overreacted. He said he would apologize to you." I patted her hand briefly, then decided it was a bad idea and pulled back.

"How are you feeling?" She asked, her voice getting a softer, more serious tone.

"Fine. Alright. Decent." I scratched the outside of my ear. "Listen, I know this meeting was organized so that we could talk, but I'd rather not it turn into some sort of counseling session. I already have a doctor and a therapist who will never let me hear the end of it."

"Oh, that's perfectly alright." She smiled. "I just want to talk to you. Figure out what's happening."

I sighed. "I had another doctor's appointment yesterday. I was hoping to get off the medication, but things didn't exactly go as I hoped they would."

"What do you mean?"

"He made me angry."

"Ah."

"I don't think I'm getting off any time soon."

Anne tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Why did you want to get off it in the first place? Isn't anxiety medication supposed to make you feel better?"

"It's supposed to, but it doesn't. The side-effects are terrible and it takes months for the things that are positive to start working. It's frustrating."

"I'm sure it is."

"But what about you, Anne? How are things with Lestrade?"

"I left him."

My mouth went dry. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright," She chuckled. "I'm fine. He's fine. It just wasn't working out. We went our different ways. No harm, no foul."

"That's good. I'm glad you could have closure."

"Yes."

A waiter brought us our meals shortly after. I couldn't complain at all about the quality, it was one of the best café meals I'd ever had. I would go into detail about it but I don't think it's very important besides the fact it was delicious. Anne boasted about the skill of the cook, who was one of her good friends from university. She offered for me to try some her avacado salad, and she tried some of mine. I told her how my sister was allergic to avacado but she continues to this day to eat guacamole. She said that her brother used to do the same thing with tomatoes and ketchup. We laughed about it and stirred our salads. Neither of us were very hungry, but we enjoyed each other's company nonetheless.

I'm not sure how we got onto the topic of discussion, but at one point I remember telling her about your crime web and the odd things that had been happening around the flat.

"One night I could've sworn I heard footsteps," I recalled, sipping at my glass. "I went out to see, but there was no one except us, even though the window was left ajar. It was the strangest thing. And the cabinet, too. The cabinet is always falling off it's hinges, but now every few days it's left open. There's nothing taken out, but it's left open. If I didn't know better I would've said our flat is haunted."

She chuckled. "Ghost invasions, hmm."

"Yes. But ghosts don't account for the home invasion, either. These two men followed me home one morning and attacked me on the street. Right there, on Baker Street! They followed me into the house, but Sherlock must've fought them off, because one of them threw me onto the stairs and gave me a nasty concussion." I smoothed my hair where the tiny scar was. "Lestrade still has one of them in custody, I think. Argall something or other."

"Oh, no, that man escaped a few days ago. I thought Sherlock had told you?"

I felt the color flush from my face. "What? Escaped?"

"Yes. Vanished, right from his cell. No one knows where he went. He only told me because he was worried about your safety if Argall managed to get back to Baker Street. He told me he let Sherlock know, but I wonder why he ddn't tell you."

"Maybe because he didn't want me to worry," I thought.

"That's probably it."

I swirled the water in my glass. "I'm really tired ot the 'case'. It's much better to be a detective working a case than to be the victim experiencing the case."

"I'm sure it is."

"I wish these people would just lay off on Sherlock," I added. "there are so many people who would like nothing more than to ruin him because of the cases he's solved and the good he's done. He has no sympathy for the businessman, or the politician, he doesn't care about reputation and he gets himself into trouble all the time because of it. Now someone is aiming their gun at me to play with him, and it's working."

"You think someone is trying to harm Sherlock by harming you?" Anne repeated, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes were quizzative.

"Yes. It's the only explanation." I thought for a second, then laughed, shaking my head. "Nothing happens to me. It's just him. It's all about him. I'm just the blogger."

"No, John." She leaned foward, setting her elbows on the table, and looking me dead in the eye. "That's not true."

"It is, Anne, I'm not just saying it to be modest." I smiled, trying to relax her serious glare. "Most things revolve around Sherlock, and that's fine. It's Sherlock, then Watson."

"No, John." Her eyes betrayed worry and intensity. "You're wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Very wrong."

A dark shadow appeared in the outskirts of my vision. I stared at Anne, trying to make sense of her, trying to identify the ominous feeling that was settling in my stomach. Or maybe it wasn't a feeling. My chest felt tight, and I flexed my jaw. Something was wrong.

The man stood above our table, his long black coat reaching his ankles. A dark hat covered most of his face, but when I looked up, I could see the bright squint of his eyes.

Jack Argall.

"You should really be more careful about the things you consume, Dr. Watson," He said with a dark chuckle. "You should have learned your lesson by now."

My vision swam, blisters of darkness appearing all over the room. I swayed, and I could feel Anne's hand on my shoulder, keeping me upright.

"Come quietly," She whispered, "and we won't have to hurt you."

* * *

Next part up soon


	24. Chapter 24

Wow feedback just keeps flooding in I'm really happy you guys are enjoying this story as much as I am :D

I'm only fifteen followers away from 100 I'm super psyched yo

Yes yes everyone realized that Anne was suspicious two thumbs up for you but if everything goes according to plan there are more big plot points in these next few chapters so keep your eyes peeled and theories ready

Enjoy xx

* * *

The dog.

The dog was barking, somewhere far away. It was too bright. I covered my eyes, letting my eyes adjust slowly.

Hyde Park. The soft warmth of the spring bounced off my skin, radiating and filling everything around me. It was just you and I, seated on a bench surrounded by green, with the sound of birds in the trees above us. You had a smile written in your face, in the curve of your mouth, in the flicker of your eyes. Your arm was wrapped around my shoulder, the smell of your hair and your cologne strong against the sweet canvas of the spring.

"I don't know if you want to talk with me right now or not," You said, the solmenity of your voice not quite matching your outward peacefulness. You turned to me. "I'm just going to let you know that I'm not going to avoid you or ignore you. I hope you will forgive me."

Gladstone yapped, still distant. There was another man sitting on a bench a few paces away from us, with his big black coat tucked neatly underneath him. It was a little too warm for that kind of attire, wasn't it?

You shifted, running your fingers through my hair as you looked out onto the pond. "Too many options, too many ideas. They need to be _out of my head_. I need to get away from them. They're hurting me, John."

The man across the way kicked his foot at Gladdie, who now I could see was barking directly at him. He seemed distraught, alarmed, almost. You tsked, taking your arm from around me and calling the dog away. He didn't move, only kept barking. I could see the injection marks in your arm. Fresh.

"I didn't do it because I was angry, John," You whispered, not looking me in the eye. "I did it because I was exhausted, and because I wanted to be able to help you as soon as possible. You have to understand, John... I didn't do it because I was unhappy. I did it because you were, and I couldn't do anything about it."

You stood, walking over to collect the loud dog. The man was put off, even when you apologized. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, producing a knife.

* * *

A nauseating ringing sound split through my skull as the white light washed across my vision. Everything was swirling in an uncomfortable mixture of whites and greys. Underneath me, there was padding. A bed. Sheets. I twisted my fingers in them. My head was cushioned. A pillow? Yes. The walls were white. Everything was white. A large mirror was set into the wall across from the bed, reflecting the white back at itself. Above it, a small black camera peered at me.

My head pounded as I lifted it. Where was I? What had happened to me? I couldn't remember anything past Anne. Anne, she was talking to me in the café. Telling me something, something about you, something about staying quiet. That man, Argall was there too. Or was it Lestrade? Why couldn't I remember? _Where was I?_

There was a familliar sense of foreboding as I looked around. No. _No_. They couldn't have. This wasn't the ward. This wasn't the room. But it looked like the room.

I shuffled on the bed, reflexively curling myself into the corner where the bed met the wall, my chest and head throbbing.

"Hello?" I called out, praying someone would be there to answer me.

No one.

"_Hello_?" I tried again. "Is anyone there? I think there's been some kind of mistake."

_No. No. No. No._ They couldn't have put me in the ward. Not without my permission. _Someone's_ permission. You wouldn't have put me in there, I know you wouldn't. No. It had to be something else. But what else could it be? Why couldn't I remember? Had I passed out again? Was it another attack? Or something different? My memory was too jumbled up and scattered around for me to piece anything together.

A voice crackled to life from a speaker I couldn't see. A woman's voice. "Good morning, John. I hope you slept well. You seemed a little unsettled toward the end. Nightmares, perhaps?"

"Who is that?" I shouted. "Tell me where I am."

"Settle down, young man. Don't be rude."

"Who are you?"

"Guess."

"Anne?"

"Close."

"Where am I?" I bit my lip. "Is this the ward? I refuse to be kept here, I've already made this very clear."

"Of course you have. But don't worry, this isn't the ward."

I knitted my eyebrows. "Then what is this place?"

"The holding room, sweetheart. Your lovely little cage. Nice padded walls, pretty little bed, don't you like it? I hope you do. I truly hope so." Her voice chuckled over the intercom. "See that little camera, in the far right corner? That little red light means that it's recording. I'm watching you, Watson, _personally_. I find this all very amusing, really. Since your friend back at Baker Street took the great pleasure of mutilating and humiliating my man Argall, I'll be sure to return him the favor if you make any kind of attempt to escape. Understood?"

I swallowed. "This is about Sherlock, then?"

Another chuckle. "I did warn him."

"Look, whoever you are. You've obviously underestimated who you're dealing with. Sherlock isn't-"

"-going to let me get away with it, yes, I've been updated on your fiancé's particular talents. But I'm not interested, John. If you're going to hold on to the hope that your Prince Charming will come riding in on a white horse and rescue you, you're more pathetic than I had imagined. Your life is not in his hands, Watson, it is in mine, and you should submit to that reality very quickly, for your own good."

My stomach rolled with frustration. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing. There's nothing you can give me, nothing you can say that will make me release you, that will give me any incentive to set you free. Well, alright, that isn't entirely true. If you make it look like you're in an acceptable amount of pain, maybe you will get out sooner. Maybe. But I can't promise I'll be satisfied with an act. The best screams are the honest ones, right?"

"So, then, what, you'll torture me, pick on Sherlock, is that it? Is that all you want?"

"Why would I tell you what I want? It's not terribly important that you know." She sighed. "Only American criminals prepare a monologue. Now, I have some matters to attend to. But before that. A proper hostess always offers her guests a platter, correct?"

The door with the metal latch swung open, revealing a dark-clad Argall, his face this time revealed. He walked with a slight limp, carrying a metal tray with three small butties and a bowl of yellowish soup, beside a bottle of water. I was not in the least hungry, nor was my mind clear of doubts about the array of food and what they might've contained. But my throat was dry and raw, and as soon as Argall shut the door behind him, I scrambled for the bottle.

"Enjoy your time alone, Mr. Watson," The voice said. "I think with a little coercing you'll come to enjoy it." A crack, and silence resumed.

* * *

Before going to Afghanistan, I had received training on how to handle torture situations, just like any soldier. I was shown methods of preparation, if the torturer came at me with various weapons, and how to separate myself mentally from different sorts of torture. I was taught to keep my mind busy, how to use small things to keep myself occupied, to keep my emotions at bay and to hold my head in check. But it seemed so much more difficult now than it had in boot-camp. I had never been taken hostage or tortured while in Afghanistan, so it could have just been a lack of experience, the training being milder than the actual situation. But I also couldn't help but admit that my upsetted emotional state was a factor as well.

The longer I stayed awake, the better I could remember the things that had happened in the café and afterward. Anne had betrayed me. She had been working with Argall the whole time, I suspected. Argall and his faceless criminal benefactor. I swore under my breath. You had been right all along, and I had put it off as _jealousy_. How had I been so stupid.

I couldn't think about you without feeling sick to my stomach. Were you in danger, still? Were you looking for me? I knew it was just a matter of time before you found out what had happened, but I wondered if you would come in time. You were the great Sherlock Holmes, but I hadn't exactly left you a trail of breadcrumbs to follow. The only thing that I could see as a sliver of hope was my mobile phone, but I had as much reason to think that Argall had smashed it to pieces as I had to think you could track it to their location.

Pacing around the room, I tried to re-focus my thoughts on other things. My torture training. I had to keep my mind busy. Try to find something to focus on, to attribute memories to. That's what they said, right? But everything around me was white, save my own clothes. My jumper, trousers, and shoes. They hadn't changed my clothes, but they had stripped them of important things like my wallet, keys, and phone. Even the tags were snipped off, for some reason. I sat down and took off my shoes, setting them down at the edge of the bed and laying down.

Was I supposed to keep moving? Was I supposed to sleep? I couldn't remember. Everything in my head kept changing and spinning and baring its teeth when I tried to think about it. My stomach turned in frustation, and I buried my face into the pillow before any more terrible thoughts could come.

The lights of the room flipped off, plunging me into darkness. That fact sent a shiver up my spine. The only light in the room was the tiny red, flashing bulb of the camera, reminding me that she was watching. Always watching.

I cursed and turned over, forcing myself to sleep.

* * *

Next part up soon


	25. Chapter 25

I hope all you guys are set to record the Empty Hearse on Sunday, PBS. I'm going to watch this episode so many times in the next week I'm not even joking it's going to be so sad.

Enjoy the next chapter x

* * *

They left me alone for what felt like ages. There was no noise coming from anywhere, probably the room had been soundproofed. I had gotten to know it intimately since I'd arrived. Every crease, every crevice, I knew it. One bald light, fixed into the wall above me. That little black camera and its red light, the only hint of color in the room besides myself. The metallic door handle, the grey of the mirror. I had investigated every tiny speck of dust, trying to find any possible escape routes, coming up with none. The door was the only way in and the only way out. Even if it was easily recognized, I still looked, trying to think of possibilities, burning mental energy that way.

I was afraid to sleep. When I had tried, I had woken not too long afterward, shaken by more nightmares. I hated nightmares, and I didn't want to be sick stuck in this little room, so I changed my plans and worked to keep myself awake.

Over time, though, I had to succumb. No one could stay alert forever, especially when locked in a cage.

The same dream kept replaying when I slept, coming over and over again, but never truly reaching resolution. You and I in the park, with Gladdie, and the man in the long coat. Sometimes I sat on the bench with you, and sometimes I stood some distance away, surveying, floating like some kind of ghost. The dog always noticed him first, the man. He sniffed the ankle of his trousers and bared his teeth.

_No. Don't close your eyes._ I bumped my head against the padded wall, shaking it slightly to keep myself awake.

Escapes. Deductions. Theories. Sleep.

You didn't suspect the man at all as you approached the howling dog. You seemed annoyed with Gladdie, and I could almost hear you curse and call him a name. Sometimes you picked him up, sometimes you only put your hand on his back. But whatever you tried, the man still wasn't happy with you. He always pulled the knife. Why? You didn't think anything of him. Why would he pull the knife?

I came to the conclusion, floating close to the two men, studying the precise moment of time when he reached for the knife. You watched, unnaturally frozen, and I could see the small spark of horror in your eyes. Looking to the cloaked man, his face was hard to see, but the curve of his eyebrow told me anger. The anger of a man being yapped at by a dog. The anger of a man whose cover had been blown by this yapping dog.

But who was this man? Why did he pull the knife on you?

Stepping back, I let the rest of the dream roll on. He jumps on you, throws the dog off. Drives the knife into your stomach. You recoil, stepping back, hands going to your abdomen. He grabs your hair, yanking your neck tight and slashing the knife. Blood spilled out across the pavement and the grass. The dream-state me rushed over, throwing myself onto the man, but he was nearly twice my size, three times my strength. He kept stabbing at your chest while I shrieked, pounding on his back.

Pause again. I leaned over to look at the man's face again. Distinctively Argall. That part made sense. But why would he so ruthlessly murder you? Had you seen his face, possibly?

I tried to channel my inner Sherlock Holmes, and soon enough, you were standing beside me, a ghost yourself, stepping around the three dream-states in your peculiar kind of way. "Five puncture wounds so far, one major cut to the throat. Already dead by now. Cause of death, blood loss." You pulled out your small magnifying glass, peering closely at the wound on your neck, then at Argall's knife. "He's had the same knife since Afghanistan. Look at the stains in the handle, the way his hand has rubbed such clear indentations into the leather."

"Why was he here? Why did he jump you?"

"I was hoping you would know the answer to that," You replied, straightening.

"Why am I here?"

"I'm pretty sure I had something to do with that," Anne said, stepping into view. I rubbed the back of my neck. Too tired to wonder where she had come from.

"I still can't believe that you would do something like that to me," I cringed.

"Maybe you didn't know me as well as you thought you did," She answered, sounding sinister. Her green eyes glowed red and evil, tongue snaking out from between her teeth. "John."

I panicked, running from her and toward you. But as I got closer, you reached your hand out toward me, and disappeared into dust.

Suddenly, I was standing before Bart's, a cold piece of plastic pressed to the side of my head, with your voice echoing out at me. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick." I choked out words back to you, but I couldn't remember them, I couldn't hear them. You fell, your legs and arms moving with the current, air whipping through your dark curls. A thud. Blood across the pavement. The sharp collision of a bike with my hip. Hysteria. Yelling, crying, screaming, checking your pulse.

A long, scaled monster, writhing just beyond the edges of my vision.

Fear crawled up my spine. The street melted away, reshaping to form the ugly walls of the suicide ward. They closed in around me like chains, immediately launching me into hysterics. I fell into the corner, my entire body shaking, and screamed for someone, anyone, just to answer me. I pulled out my hair, scratching my face, trying to get my heart to stop racing, my skin to stop crawling.

The white padding pressed against my back. The holding room. Not the ward. Not the ward. My stomach gave a lurch. I had been dreaming. My eyes were dry, my face wet, my chest tight and sore. As I started to calm down, the muscles in my stomach relaxed, then sharply tightened again, spilling the contents across the white. Dizziness and vertigo threatened to put my face in the middle of the slimy mess.

* * *

Remembering the things that went on in the little white room get progressively foggier as the time gets later. But as I was briefed after my release, the ages I had supposedly been locked in the room had, in real time, been compressed into the span of fifty hours. Fifty hours I had been missing. How much of that time I had spent sleeping and how much I had spent in a half-dream delirium, I have no idea. But, even with the unreliability of my memory, I do remember certain instances very clearly.

At one point, a man (who was not Argall) had appeared. I'm not sure what he had wanted, but he had scared me pretty badly, and he didn't leave until I had a few well-placed bruises across my chest.

I refused to eat, even though they brought different kinds of food several times. I only drank the water that they brought me. The intense dreams and hallucinations I had in the room were proof of drugs, but if I didn't drink water, I wasn't sure what kind of horrible sicknesses would overcome me.

The female voice I had heard at the beginning of my captivity never reappeared.

There were many various nightmares that came when I slept, most of them fitting neatly into the spectrum of war horrors or murder cases that had stuck with me. I also experienced hallucinations, like feeling the room spin or drop suddenly, along with colors dotting or swimming along the walls. No nightmare or hallucination, however, could quite account for one very peculiar instance of vision or daydream.

It was all perfectly clear in my head. I was sitting with my back flush against the wall, staring blankly at the opposite, with the door and mirror full in my vision. In the corner, curled underneath the black camera, was a large dark-blue lizard. Not quite a lizard, more like a large snake, or a dragon. A monster. It had a mouth full of sharp teeth and a long, forked tongue that flicked out with second intervals. Its nostrils flared when it took a breath, its dark eyes watching me from white slits. Muscles rippled beneath the layer of scales. The smell of its sweat and slime filled the room, but I couldn't look it in the face.

It was there, right there, in the room with me. I could feel its presence, vibrating like the bass notes of a cello throughout the room. Its smell nearly made me sick. It was pressed up in the corner beneath the camera. It was underneath my bed, slithering under the bed of the suicide ward. It hid in our flat, beneath the desks and behind the wallpaper. It had been all around me, all the time, permeating through all my memories and coiling its tail around my every thought.

And I wasn't sure if I could escape it on my own.

The thing that kept me sane, kept me from completely falling apart, was the hope that you would somehow find your way to me. Find a way to get me out of this corridor of Hell. Get me out. But seeing that beast, smelling the dark sweat of its scales, it made me weaker and weaker, more and more vulnerable to its claws.

But no matter how menacing, no matter how large it grew, as soon as that metallic door swung open, it was gone. Crumbled into dust, just like that. A living, breathing thing, gone, before I could even blink.

Argall stood before me, brandishing a large wooden object. And somehow, I wished the monster had stayed instead.

* * *

Next part up soon


	26. Chapter 26

Thank you so much for the reviews you guys are great

Almost at 100 follows ! woah man so happy

I'm going to be very empty in heart when this story finishes let me tell you

Enjoy enjoy

* * *

Argall watched me with a steel gaze, his brow drawn up tight. He rolled what looked like a wooden oar in his hand. It was dark, stained with a dark brown pigment, with a leather handle and wrist strap tightened around his muscled hand. Its edge was sharpened to a sickle-like point. I could only imagine what he had come inside to do, though I didn't remember doing anything that might've angered my captor. She must have just gotten bored.

"Up, Watson." He barked.

I still sat with my back to the wall, quietly trying to figure out where Asphyxia had disappeared to.

The man had no patience. With my slight hesitation, he gripped the wood and connected the blunt side with the curve of my head.

"_Get up_."

I groaned and cusioned my head with my arms, trembling with fear. His nose curled up in anger, and he swiftly grabbed me by the hair, pulling me off the bed. I howled in pain, grabbing at his wrist, trying to get him to loosen his grip. He let me fall to the ground and took a step back, gripping the thick paddle with both arms, as if it was a bat.

"Stand on your feet, Doctor." Argall growled.

Stumbling to my feet, I braced for impact, keeping my arms close and fists balled. The first blow came as soon as I was straightened, a fierce strike to the arm that threw off my delicate balance and slammed me into the mirror. I groaned again, falling on my knee and cradling my throbbing arm.

His voice rumbled through the room. "On your feet."

"Stop! Stop!" I cried.

"I said, _on your feet_." He swung again, connecting the blunt with my shoulder. The edge clipped just beneath my arm, and blood began to seep into the fabric of my shirt. When I stayed leaned against the mirror, you swung a second time, this time digging the blade deep into the flesh of my back.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, doubling over.

"_On your feet_."

I clenched my teeth, pushing myself back to my feet, with memories of Afghanistan and boot camp rushing back into the forefront of my mind. I was a soldier. I could take this. This was physical, this I could take. But with each subsequent blow, each drop of blood I lost, my strength faded more and more.

When Argall swung the last time, hitting my bad leg, I couldn't put up with it anymore. The pain was inconvievable, and I was absolutely sure the blade had punctured a considerable amount of muscle. I shrieked for him to stop, coughing and moaning with the outcry of every bone of my body. This time, with the wooden edge having changed color from a steely grey to dark crimson, he stopped, holding the paddle down to his side.

I collapsed with relief, closing my eyes to block out the stains of red that had sunk into the white padding.

"Now, you come with me, Dr. Watson" Argall said, brushing his hair back into place. "And I would come easily, if I were you."

"You're _fucking_ not," I hissed, and recieved a reply of a swift kick in the stomach, and another fistful of my hair brought my eyes to meet yours.

"You can walk, or I can drag your limp corpse. Your choice."

* * *

The stink of blood and leather surrounded me as consciousness passed in and out of my reach. Argall had "escorted" me through a series of white halls and loaded me into the back of a car, the model I couldn't make out. Everything was dark for a long time, the windows had been darkened, either with paint or a thick curtain. I laid on the floor with my head near Argall's feet, and if I made the slightest sound, the slightest movement, he would press his heel against my windpipe until I either stopped crying or passed out.

I couldn't see anything, but I could feel a clamminess on my back that reminded me of the monster from the room. The leather could have almost smelled like the slime on its scales, the breath from its lungs. I could feel its tail slink along my calf, and reflexively kicked it away. Argall's heel on my throat made me still, but the fear was strong.

Just as the blood had started to dry and cake on the floor of the car, it stopped. It was only a brief stop, where Argall kicked open the door and dragged me out by the arms. I was too dizzy and disoriented to make a sound. The ground was no comfort as it came, slamming against my chest and head. A distorted shadow of Argall climbed back into the black beast of a car and disappeared.

Footsteps, people shouting and crying out, the blaring of horns all stirred me from my daze. I opened my eyes and looked around, as a moderately sized crowd had already begun to enclose me. Their faces, twisted and pale, looking down at me. I shouted that I was alright and pushed to my feet, pushing the hands of strangers away. I stumbled through, keeping my balance on the shoulders of others, trying to find my bearing. I had to figure out where I was, what I was doing. People overwhelmed me. So much noice, so much color, so much movement. It made me sick to my stomach.

Your voice shot out like a siren, one tiny whisper of familiarity in a swirling sea. You were calling my name, but I couldn't find you. I kept pushing, kept trying to run, stumbling and falling back onto my hands. Behind the footsteps of strangers, I could see the flick of the monster's tail, the soft prod of its paws on the pavement, its saliva mix in with the melted snow and slush. The heat of its breath was sharp and terrifying against the back of my neck.

A firm set of hands found my shoulders, holding me still, patting down my arms and chest. The man looked directly into my eyes; his mouth was moving, but I coudn't hear him. Lestrade? Was that Lestrade? It was like a light-switch had gone off inside my head. _London. Oxford Road. Lestrade. Lestrade._

Tears poured down my face, but no sound came from my mouth. I sank down to my knees, gripping Lestrade's shoulders as firmly as he did mine. I laid my hand against his chest, shaking with cold and pain, as the sting of my wounds against the fresh snow made an appearance.

Someone else came too, grabbing me away from Lestrade and holding my head against the collar of his coat. It was you. It was you. Your curls flushed with mine, and though I couldn't understand your words, I could hear the thick emotion, feel the panic in the tips of your fingers, the sway of your chest as you rocked me back and forth.

* * *

The ambulance came minutes later, its sirens drilling nails into my head. A sedative was quickly administered. I can't remember a shadow.

* * *

They tried to keep me under while they stitched me up, but a few times I had fluttered back to life. Pain and panic dug their nails into me, and I clutched tightly to you, weeping into the fabric of your shirt. You whispered to me, and played with my hair.

* * *

You never left. Even at night, even in the day, even when the nurses would change my bandages or check my temperature. You laid beside me, your arm brushing gently against the skin of my arm. Your warmth, surrounding me. You, more than the sedatives or the oxygen, helped me to calm, to breathe.

* * *

"I didn't do it because I was angry, John."

Slowly, I started to remember. The night that your violin lulled me to sleep while still in my armchair. You had waited until the end of the stanza, then set your instrument down and slipped your arm under my legs, the other under my shoulders, and lifted. I was only barely awake, but I had registered that you were carrying me, the softness of your shirt and the smell of your cologne. My foot bumped the doorframe as we went in. You laid me down, taking the time to pull off my shoes and cardigan.

"I did it because I was exhausted." You were whispering, sitting by my leg with your hand set on my shoulder. "Because I wanted to be able to help you as soon as possible. You have to understand, John... I didn't do it to spite you, or to get back at you. I didn't do it because I was unhappy. It was because you were, and I, with all my talents, could do nothing for you."

You sighed, your voice wavering, head bent down. "I'm sorry I've caused you more grief. I'm trying, John. I'm honestly, honestly trying."

Lips brushed against my forehead, and you fixed my hair back.

"I love you, John," You breathed. "I love you."

* * *

The best part of writing is getting to know when the end is coming and g.e.t.t.i.n.g. e.x.c.i.t.e.d. y.o.u.r.s.e.l.f.

Heh

Next part up soon


	27. Chapter 27

I finally have a number for you guys. Chapter 35 will be Asphyxia's final chapter. So don't think I'm joking when I say we're getting very, very close to climax.

Thanks so much for all the reviews and follows, y'all really do make my day.

Hope you all enjoyed The Empty Hearse last night too I know I did way too much

Anyway enjoy!

* * *

"Can we go through the case file, just one more time before John wakes up?" Lestrade's voice. You sighed, I could feel the pressure release from your chest. A rustle of pages, the click of a pen, scribbling. "Thanks. I just want to make sure we have _everything_ that relates. Start from the beginning? The kidnapping?"

"Mm, yes." Your baritone vibrated against my ear. "John arrived at the designated café, _Sam and Christa's,_ at 12:39 P.M., Friday, December 27th. He allegedly met with Ms. Anne Whitefield, though she has yet to admit to the event. At 1:19 P.M., John was recorded by the outdoor security camera nearby to be taken from the café and loaded into a small, black vehicle. The car traveled west."

"Yes, and how did you deduce this?"

"I really don't like explaining myself more than once. When Anne had eaten with us we saw her re-fold her napkin twice, and so using that bit of information the table that she occupied was easy to place. The marks on the café floor matched the brand of John's shoes and showed him being quickly ushered out of the restaurant, half-walking and half-dragged, most likely under the influence of drugs. And as for the type of car and its direction, the security footage is pretty reliable on its own."

"Alright, good enough." More page-turning. "Explain the scene you found in the parking garage."

"Two footsteps and John. One a woman's, assumed to be Anne Whitefield's. Another's a man's, about 6'5, heavy build, broad-shouldered. He had been carrying John. The two of them had a bit of an argument, as I saw, and the woman's footsteps went off another direction from the man's. The man entered a different car and drove away with John, while the woman's tracks led outside and to a tube stop."

"How did you pull the footprints?"

"A specific kind of brick dust found primarily in Camden, I pulled a few prints from that and filled in the blanks, not too difficult."

"Deductions about the car?"

"Stolen. Driven by the man. In the rear part of the car, John's mobile phone had fallen and been pushed under one of the seats. I only saw a sliver of it before we got the warrant. The owner was Roger Stenley, who was uninvolved with the case and unaware that his car had been compromised. His alibi checked out - he was having an affair with his secretary, she had taken him home with her. His car had stayed in the parking garage, or so he assumed. He didn't have anything to do with the case, no charges. The car made frequent trips between Stenley's house in the suburbs and his office building in Camden. It had made a trip to the café and back to the garage, the level of gas left in the vehicle was exactly correct for that distance."

"Do you have anything else that might lead to finding the place where John was kept?"

"Not much. The car that the man used to transport him is still missing. Its plates from footage shot as it left the garage turned up blank paper. There was no decisive track that we could have followed, we only know that he drove north-east. I've questioned Ms. Whitefield, but she resorted to a lie, denying that John had even shown up at the café in the first place. Obviously the security proves otherwise. Questioning her would reveal the identity of the man she was accompanied by, but I've received word from the detective inspector assigned to the case that she was off-limits to amateurs."

Lestrade gave a tsk, folding his papers over again. "Alright, Sherlock. I'll submit the report. Text me when John wakes up, he still has questions to answer."

"Fine."

Footsteps padded toward the door. With a click, he shut it behind him. I felt you sigh again, moving your hand up to my shoulder.

"Have a good nap, John?"

I stretched my leg, ignoring the short pain. "How did you know I was awake?"

"Did you hear the whole conversation?"

"Most of it, I think." I put a hand on my forehead. "How long have I been out?"

"Just for the night. It's about 9:20 now. The 30th of December. Monday. How are you feeling?"

"A bit dazed. Groggy. My back hurts."

"The muscle or the skin?"

"The skin. How are the wounds?"

"Well, there'll be no permanent damage."

"That's good." I yawned, adjusting my head to a more comfortable position on my chest.

"Are you feeling well enough to answer some questions?" You asked, softly.

"Mmh. I'm so tired. I don't want to talk to Lestrade right now."

"How about your brother-in-law, then."

I was surprised to hear Mycroft's voice come from behind me. Of course, I shouldn't have assumed we'd be left alone. With a huff I eased myself over so that I could see him, with his grey suit and gold tie, umbrella leaning against the right side of his chair. His small eyes went across my length with the same look you always had; looking for a problem. But they settled back to mine when they found none.

"It's good to see you awake, John," He said.

"Hello, Mycroft," I muttered. "I didn't realize you were here."

"That's understandable." He crossed his legs. "If you've heard all of Lestrade's conversation, I would assume you are already aware of the need we have for the names of your attackers, if you'd possibly-"

"Anne." My chest tightened when I said her name. "Where is Anne."

"Whitefield? I believe she still has her residency at her apartment in Greenwich."

"I want to see her." I started to sit up, putting my elbow in the hospital pillow for balance.

"She's a suspect, John." You said, your voice cold. "She's dangerous, and she's not coming anywhere near you."

"I want to see her."

"Why don't you explain to us what role she had in your abduction, and we will discuss with Lestrade what we can do about your meeting with her."

"No. I want to see her now." I narrowed my eyes at the older Holmes. My heart monitor had begun to beep faster. "I want to talk to her. Freely, not with he as an arrestee. Bring her here, let me talk to her. I'm not going to answer any questions or tell you anything until I see her."

You and Mycroft exchanged glances, but I could tell that he needed my information, and was prepared to get it.

"You're quite the hastle, aren't you, Dr. Watson," Mycroft sighed, standing.

* * *

Anne came into my room close to two hours later. She definitely did not look as pristine as she had on Friday. Her hair was unkempt, brushed through quickly before she left the house. She wore an oversized sweater under a light green jacket. I couldn't see any evidence of makeup on her face, and she had a slight blush on her nose and cheeks from the cold. When she saw me, her skin tone went at least two shades lighter.

She walked silently from the door to the chair on the left of the hospital bed.

"Anne," You said, your voice dark.

"Hello, Sherlock." She replied, keeping her head down. "John."

"Look at me, Anne," I said, sitting up.

She raised her head, her green eyes filled with both worry and shame. You might have seen her as a criminal, a deceitful and malicious woman. But I knew that you weren't quite right. I knew how she looked at me in that café. And her eyes convinced me that she was anything but criminal. Maybe it was blind faith, but it was faith nonetheless

"Alright, Anne, tell me." I said, firmly. "The café. What happened at the café."

Anne glanced up at you, and I didn't have to guess how murderous your expression was. She looked back at me, her eyebrows knitted. "John..."

"Don't try lies on me, Anne. I _need_ to know."

"I didn't mean for anything to happen to you, John," She whispered. "I swear, I didn't."

"Then tell me what happened. What _exactly_ happened."

"...I can't."

"Look, Anne. At this point the only two people who can keep you out of prison are staring you in the face. Myself, and Sherlock." I leaned forward on my arm. "I know you're not a criminal. But I'm the only one who does, and I can't prove it. You need to tell me exactly what happened, and exactly who you are, or I can't promise that you won't be facing the consequences of your actions."

She swallowed hard, glancing up at you again. I knew you would be surprised with my accusations (or lack thereof), but I kept my eyes solely on Anne. She was obviously backed into a corner.

"Tell me," I insisted

"John... I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't. I really didn't." Anne leaned forward onto her knees, keeping her voice low. "But I can't tell you what happened, either, because if I do, it will hurt you even more. You have to trust me."

"No, Anne, you don't have that option anymore." You growled, your words short. "We don't trust you. You either tell us, or I will be _certain_ that in court you will receive a death sentence."

Her eyes flashed with fear.

"Start by telling us what you can, Anne." I said. "Skirt around the things you can't tell us."

"John!" You snapped.

"No, Sherlock, shut up. Just listen." I turned to glare at you, and you shut your mouth.

Anne cleared her throat, running her fingers along her lips. "My... client required that you were to be brought in."

"So you arranged for him to meet you in Camden so you could abduct him."

"No! No. I know that's what it looks like, but that's not it."

"Who is your client, Anne?" I asked.

"I can't tell you." She gave you a fierce sort of glare. "I don't trust your fiancé to keep away. He's going to get himself killed if I tell him."

You started to say something, but I coughed loudly to stop you.

"Alright, I can settle for that. Why were you hired?"

"I'm a surveillance agent. Well, this time, I am." She smoothed her hair. "I'm a trained covert operations agent, formerly employed with the CIA. I've been hired to gather intelligence on Dr. Watson and to build a relationship with him so that I could monitor his health and status. I've been-"

"CIA?" You said. "That's an American organization. How were you-"

"Oh, right." She cleared her throat, and her Welsh accent was as if it had never existed. "It took me a long time to get the right accent down. Sorry, sometimes I don't even notice it. My real name is Anne Carter, in case you hadn't already figured it out. Wisconsin, born and raised."

You were stunned into silence, and I chuckled. Even with all your powers of deduction, even when you recognized she was questionable, you had never realized that she had been an American. Her accent had been spot on, all her remarks and manners had been 100% English. I doubted you had ever seen a better actor than she.

"If you'd like to keep some of your pride, Mr. Holmes, I've lived in Wales since my resignation with the CIA. Spent a lot of time with English influences. It's second nature to me." She smiled, and with a northern twinge, added "sorry".

"That's fantastic," I grinned. "I never would've guessed."

"Thank you."

"On with it," You muttered. "You were hired for surveillance."

"Yes. My client wanted to keep eyes and ears on John at all times. They wanted to make sure he didn't go anywhere or do anything that might've hindered their plans."

"_Her_ plans. We already know that it's a female. E."

"...Yes. She." Anne pursed her lips. "She is not a woman to be trifled with. John, you've heard her. She was the one who spoke to you over intercom. She's wealthy, guiltless, ruthless, and not easily fooled. Her orders were to keep you under her thumb, to make you weak, and so far her methods have been working."

"You mean the poisoning and the abduction."

"Yes."

"But... why is she targeting me, rather than Sherlock? I don't understand it."

Anne gave a short smile. "She doesn't care about, Sherlock, John. She only cares about you."

"What? Why?" I looked at you, then back at Anne. "What have I done to make someone want to attack me?"

"It's not something you've done, John."

"You've lost me."

"You're not the target, you're the leverage."

"Leverage for _whom_?"

She pressed her lips together

"If not Sherlock, then whom?"

"Your parents," You answered for her. Her expression changed, and she nodded. You made a grumbling noise. "Why hadn't I thought of that sooner. Your parents obviously have stumbled onto some sort of sour business relationship with someone who they should not have crossed. You said your father's business has been flourishing, hasn't it?"

"Well, yes..." The gears in my head turned as I thought it all over.

"The businessman must be after your father's wealth. Am I correct, Anne?"

"I can't say."

You swore. "Americans."

"You still haven't explained what happened in the café," I said.

"I haven't gotten to it. Although I've been hired by client, E, as you so kindly called her, I also have another sponsor. My client and I have known each other from our time spent in university, and she has used me as a personal bodyguard for several years. I have no guilt in the favors I've done for her over the years, because they have never been this criminal in intent. Another sponsor approached me, a woman I had known from my time spent in Wales."

"Patricia Watson." You interjected.

"I'd rather it if you let me finish my own stories," Anne stated.

"My mother?" I stammered. "My mother hired you?"

"Yes. She and I are under agreement that I would remain loyal to my client until the time came that you needed to be rescued. If she tried to abduct you, I would step in and prevent it. Your mother is very intelligent, John. She knew I would be asked to watch you by E, because I was the one with the right skill set to get the job done, and I was the closest to her. I would be the one she would contact when the time came to bring you in. And I was the one hired to prevent it."

"So you were a spy while spying," I said.

"That's right." She ran her hands through her hair, laughing nervously. "But things went wrong."

"Argall was included in the plan by E, and he wouldn't let you help me escape," I said.

Anne nodded.

"Argall." You hissed. "That was the scene I found in the parking garage."

"Yes. I'm impressed you could pull all that out of a few patches of brick dust, actually." She tapped her knee. "My cover with my client is blown. She knows that I've double-crossed her. I haven't gone back to the hideaway, because I know if I do, she'll have me locked up right away. I can't battle Argall's word with her. I'm surprised she hasn't come after me already, actually."

"You should stay with Lestrade until we're able to find her," I said.

"No, no. That isn't necessary. I'd rather not drag more people into this." She smiled apologetically.

"But you're not safe."

"I'm not safe anywhere, not from her. If she could get Argall out of an iron box without leaving a single shred of evidence, there's nowhere I can run to." Anne pulled a hairband off her wrist and tied up her hair. "I'm better off on my own, anyway. But now you know. And you have to keep this quiet, alright? If she finds out I told either of you about the plan, she'll dismember me. And there are rats everywhere."

"We'll keep it quiet. My brother knows how to deal with rats."

"Okay."

"Let Mycroft keep you safe, Anne," I said.

"No. They can't know I told anyone else." She stood up and zipped her jacket, reverting back to her northern accent. "I have to go. Be careful, John."

She went quickly out the door, keeping her head down.

When the doors were closed, I laid back against your chest, turning over in my mind all the things that Anne had revealed in that short span of time. You, also, were thinking. "How much of that story do you actually believe?" You asked, fixing your hair.

"All of it," I answered, truthfully. "I don't see why she would lie to us."

"To keep herself safe. She might've been on your side, but she's still a trained spy. She knows how to manipulate people." You huffed. "And that acting."

"You have to admit, she was pretty good." I smiled, amused with the thought of Sherlock Holmes being baffled.

"I've seen better."

"I'm worried about her, Sherlock. She's going to get herself killed."

"She can handle herself."

"I hope so."

I laid my head against your chest, listening to the soft beat of your heart.

* * *

Next part up soon


	28. Chapter 28

I just got to watch the interview part at the end of the PBS broadcast and Gatiss is the cutest I swear

I don't have much to say so enjoy this chapter xx

* * *

The morning of New Year's Eve was bright. Little snowflakes fell from a light overcast, and though having more snow piled onto the London streets didn't excite me, the view was pretty from the window as I woke up. You had been up earlier and had showered, now you were standing across the room slipping back into your trousers.

My hospital breakfast was meager, and my appetite stone-dead, but I tried to swallow a few bites. My doctor had not been impressed with the number on the scale that morning. But I found food and even water harder to force down after my experience in the "holding room". No matter how much I tried to convince myself that the food was harmless, my stomach still turned with refusal.

Of course, it also didn't help that I was also seeing things. The dark creature Asphyxia still lurked around, now cuddled into the corner across from you. Of course you didn't see it, and I wasn't going to point it out. I didn't necessarily want to be labeled as high-risk _and_ schizophrenic. So I picked up my fork and focused on ignoring the small dragon in the room.

"Consider yourself lucky, John," You said, pulling on your jacket. "The doctor didn't want you released until the end of the week. It took a decent amount of convincing on Mycroft's part to get him to let me take you home."

"That man needs to go back to medical school." I muttered, stabbing a cold clump of egg. "He doesn't know what he's doing."

"He's doing his best." You tied your scarf.

"His best isn't good enough."

"You're very demanding of your doctors."

"Obviously." I sighed at the amount of food still left on my plate. "I've lost a stone since I first came in. A stone."

"You need to start eating more, then."

"But I can hardly keep anything down regardless. As soon as night comes everything I forced into myself comes back to haunt me."

"Maybe they have medication for that."

"You've got to be joking."

"No? There's medication for nausea, uncontrollable vomitting."

"I'm not taking any more damn pills, and that's the last I want to hear about it."

"Fine, then." You flipped up the collar of your coat. "Are you ready to go?"

"I guess so."

I pushed the metal tray away, sliding my feet to the ground. You bent down to tie my shoes for me, muttering something about Cinderella, and then stood to take my hand and pull me off the bed. I reached for my jacket, ignoring the slight vertigo I felt when I stood. But evidently I was leaning a little too much, because you set your hand on my shoulder to steady me.

"You feel alright?" You asked.

"Yes, yes."

Asphyxia flicked its tail, but I ignored it.

"Let's just get home," I sighed, fixing my jacket. "I want to be in my own house, my own chair, drinking my own tea. This place is like a sponge for positivity. Sucks the life out of me."

I stepped past you, and you followed.

* * *

As time passed I started to consider if I had been placing the blame on the wrong things ever since the beginning. I said that the hospital had drained the vigor from me, but it proved that wasn't the case, as my energy continued to deteriorate as soon as I stepped from the building. Slumped against the doorframe, you pretended not to notice my fatigue, but I knew you had. My body wasn't accustomed to all the new drugs I had been exposed to, the medication and the sedatives and whatever Anne used to knock me out or my client used to make me see such bizzare scenes. I could feel myself cracking.

My jacket was much too big, I noticed. My clothes were much more loose and had started to irritate my skin around the collar and wrists. I typically didn't need to use a belt, but you had fished it out for me, recognizing the fact that my trousers no longer fit the way they were supposed to.

I tried to block the memories of the room from my mind, focus on the streets of London buzzing around me. But it was hard, it was strange for me to be seeing the movement and the colors and the energy. Almost like I had stepped from a dream, or had stumbled into a massive case of déjà vu.

"When we get home I'll make some tea," You said, turning to me. "That hospital coffee was practically water."

"Mmh."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, fine."

You didn't believe me, but turned back to the window.

We arrived at Baker Street within a few minutes, and I took my cane while you paid the driver. As I walked through the door I was bombarded by our little yowling dog, who pounced on my leg and whimpered his excitement. "Gladdie," I chuckled, scratching his back a little before letting him run out the door. He busied himself at your feet.

"Oh, John! John, thank goodness you're back!" Mrs. Hudson came running out of her rooms as fast as her hip would take her, her cooking apron tied over her waist. She wrapped her arms around me and held me tightly. "I've been worried sick about you, dear! Oh sweet heavens, you've gotten stitches?" She touched a cut on my upper forehead. "My poor, sweet John. I was just making biscuits for you, honey and almond, the kind you liked. Come sit down and eat a few with me, would you?"

"John should rest, Mrs. Hudson," You said, kicking the door back inside.

"No, no, it's alright. I can stay. Have a few biscuits." I smiled, peeling off my jacket and hanging it beside the door. I followed the older woman back into her kitchen.

"I'll put on the kettle," She said, running the small pot under the tap.

"Thank you, you're very sweet." I sat down at the table as you moved past, sitting across from me.

"Of course, anything for my John." She set it on the stove, then came over and rubbed my back. "I'm so, so glad you're home, John. It's been dreadful quiet without you here, Sherlock out running around late and all. Barely even came home, I'll tell you. 'Cept late into the night, and left early the next morning, I never even saw a shadow of him. He never remembers to say hello, you know how he is on those big cases of his." She muttered to herself, " 'nd tearing up my bloody wall with all his papers."

"You must be mistaken, Mrs. Hudson," You folded your hands on the table. "I slept at New Scotland Yard."

"What?"

"If I had come home, I would've said hello."

"Oh, sure, sure, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson laughed, patting me on the shoulder. "He always says that. Right?"

Something made a shrill ringing noise in the other room, and Mrs. Hudson scuttled off to get it. You and I locked eyes for a few moments.

"Think we've had another burglary?" I said, quietly.

"It's possible." You pursed your lips, then reached into your pocket and pulled out the small bottle of medicine my doctor had given you, setting it down on the table between us. I felt sick when I saw it, and I'm sure I went pale, judging by your expression.

"Don't make me," I croaked, my voice breaking just to spite me.

"I'm not going to, John." You leaned forward. "I think you were right."

"What?"

"I think you were right. The medicine isn't helping."

I bit my lip. My hands started to shake, fingers going cold.

"Are you having an attack, John?"

"... No. I'm fine. It's fine."

I focused all my energy on my hands, trying to get them to still, but no matter how hard I tried, it seemed like my body was working against me.

You stood and took the whistling kettle off the stove. Quickly you emptied the contents into a teacup, stirring the tea until its steam wafted up toward the ceiling. You held it in front of me, in a position so that steam came up into my nose.

"What do you smell, John?"

"What?"

"What do you _smell_."

"Tea. I smell tea." I sniffed, soothed by the warmth and scent. "Yorkshire Gold."

"You would never have been able to discern that before. You've been having tea for years but you can never pick it apart from their smell alone. Think, John. When you received that book allegedly from your parents what was the first thing you did? Smell it. When we were in the café, I had the bleach cleaner. You curled your nose immediately, the smell was strong to you. Too strong. The expression on your face when we entered the dog pound was the same."

"What does that mean, Sherlock?" I stammered.

You grabbed the pill bottle and tossed it into the air. "She was clever. She was clever. This is how she did it, John. These are benzodiazepines."

I leaned my elbows onto the table, my eyebrows knitting. "I don't know what you mean, Sherlock."

"I'll need to do an analysis on these, right away."

"_Sherlock_..."

"_What_?"

I put my head in my hands, still trembling. I felt like I was going to be sick on Mrs. Hudson's freshly-scrubbed floor.

You knelt down beside me, putting a hand on my knee. "John? What's the matter?"

"I..." I choked, balling my fists with handfuls of hair. My mind spun as I tried to think, tried to focus on something, anything. But sickness made me weak, and I let my head drop. "I don't know. I don't know, Sherlock. I should've just listened to you. I should've just - ... Should've - ..."

"Shhh, quiet, John," You whispered, petting my hair. "I'm sorry. I overwhelmed you."

"I should've just not touched Anne's champagne in the first place."

Your face softened. "Come upstairs. You need to lie down, get some rest. I'd hate for Mrs. Hudson to see you like this."

I nodded, taking your hand as you led me toward the staircase.

* * *

Next part up soon


	29. Chapter 29

Some days I just wish Asphyxia would update itself you feel me

I finally got to 100+ followers woo! Thanks you guys so much I'm super psyched this got the attention it did xx

It's been a little difficult to finish my short story while trying to pound out Asphyxia at the same time, but I'll finish it as soon as I can, and maybe I'll be able to release it before this is finished.

There is a trigger warning for this chapter, however. This is the grand Chapter 29, the last large step, and you, the reader, should take the "dark themes" warning seriously. I don't want to give anything away, but if you're easily triggered, stay seated.

Alright, indulge, and please leave a review afterward to tell me how I did.

* * *

We both thought that since I was no longer taking the medicine, my sleep would be more peaceful. We were wrong. So very, very wrong.

I had tried to rest throughout the afternoon, but no amount of tea or crap telly seemed to calm me. You and I walked outside with Gladstone, but that only helped to raise the level of my anxiety, suspecting every passerby and imagining the house in flames before we made it back. Mrs. Hudson offered me some of her "herbal soothers", but you didn't want any other kind of drug in my system until you could determine what exactly was in the pills my doctor prescribed.

You spent most of your time in front of your station, bent over the microsope, dissolving pills in various things and breaking them apart. I could see your frustration mounting as more time slipped away and you continued to find nothing at all suspicious about the pills. They were the normal dosage, there was no hint of anything amiss with any of them.

"I don't understand," You muttered, turning the bottle over. "It has to be these."

"Are you going to explain this to me, Sherlock?" I asked from my armchair.

"You're displaying the tell-tale signs of overdose," You answered, setting the bottle down. "I was certain that either your doctor or a nurse working with your doctor had botched the medication, given you too high a dosage so that you would grow sicker and sicker the more you took it. It makes perfect sense... but these pills are perfectly normal."

"Then... that _wasn't_ what happened?"

You huffed and leaned your elbows onto the counter, thinking hard. "It has to be."

I turned the telly off and stood up, stretching my arms and shoulders, careful not to upset any of my wounds. "You keep working, then. I'm going to try to sleep."

"Do you want me to stay with you?" You asked.

"No, no." I waved him off. "Keep working."

"Alright. Call if you need anything."

You got up from your chair and stalked into the living room, examining your web with your hands folded under your chin. I watched you for a few seconds, then sighed and turned on my heel, heading back into our bedroom.

I splashed some cold water on my face before laying down, but still ended up watching the dark ceiling for almost half an hour before my eyelids started to droop. The looming presence of the small beast was no comfort. I had lost the energy to continue convincing myself he didn't exist; his eyes, yellow like disease, steady on me with a thirst. He continued to permeate my memories, now making a nest in the part of my mind I was trying to access most. He stabbed fear like a dagger into my mind, and wherever he was, I was filled with agony.

Sleep came, writhing and snarling.

* * *

The scenes that my mind could construct when silenced sickened me to the core. I didn't understand why my conscious tortured me the way it did; even while I suffered through the day, sleep gave me no comfort. Sleep, at times, was even more painful than consciousness. And this was definitely one of those times.

It began with darkness, and the thick, nauseating smell of sweat, vomit, and sex. A gentle whimpering echoed through the cavernous room. _You_. I blinked hard, trying to get my eyes to adjust. Slowly your form started to take shape, squirming, shaking atop a metal table. You were stripped naked, your hair sticking to your forehead as you were held down by two men, just as bare as you were.

_Oh, Jesus, no._

Every muscle of your body was tense as you seethed, my name escaping between your gritted teeth. Men surrounded you, and _violated_ you, their swollen and misshapen bodies foul beside your perfect skin. My stomach lurched with disgust. I tried to turn away, but something grabbed me by the hair and forced me to look, forced me to _watch_, as your beautiful body was torn apart by those _disgusting_ men, panting and smiling in their own pleasure and satisfaction. Like hogs trampling on a rose.

"Sherlock!" I cried, tears dripping from my eyes just like they did from yours.

The darkness washed away, leaving me between the bleach-stained walls St. Bart's. I could see the tail of Molly Hooper's braid disappear behind the door. The mortuary. You were stretched across the cold surface of the examination table, your skin exposed to the harsh lights above you. She had washed your hair and stitched you up, cleaning the blood off your pale skin. Your chest was not moving. You were dead.

I stepped up to look at you, a miserable emptiness eating away at my heart. You looked so peaceful, so calm. I reached for the sheet to cover you, but before I could, I stole a glance at your midsection. Your skin was covered in small lacerations, trailing from your shoulder to your wrist, and all across your stomach and love handles. The sight made my insides burn, my mind go blank, and everything spun out of focus.

Awake.

I flew out of bed and immediately began to pace, ignoring the chill across my arms and chest. You were startled awake and reached to flip the lamp switch on.

"John?" You asked, quietly.

"Take off your shirt," I ordered, almost growling.

You blinked. "What?"

_"Take off your damn shirt."_

Hesitantly, you began to unbutton the top of your nightshirt. As it fell away from your neck, I saw the expanses of smooth, healthy skin, and relief washed over me.

"Thank god, it was just a dream," I panted, laughing a little. I crept back onto the bed, curling my fists into the blankets.

"So I can keep the shirt?" You sat forward. "Are you alright?"

"No. I'm not alright. Stop asking me if I'm alright. I'm obviously not alright." I squeezed my eyes shut, and you set your hand on my shoulder.

"Come lay with me, John."

I slunk over to you, and you pulled the blankets over the both of us, shutting off the light. I jumped as you disappeared, but your hand settled on the small of my back, pulling me against your chest. I think it was then that I gave into the sinking feeling of sadness that had approached me, and in answer, sleep swallowed me readily.

* * *

The things I saw that night are not things that I want to burden you with, nor things that I will willingly bring back into memory.

* * *

Daylight was not welcome. This time, my body fought against consciousness as hard as it could, rather than for it. You could do nothing to help me.

* * *

Your ice blue eyes studied me closely, but you realized you had looked in vain. There was no "problem" for you to discern. There was no "problem" at all.

* * *

Time passed as if it had never existed.

* * *

It was cold, and dark. None of the lights were on. No candles were lit. The door was left open, with snow building just inside the foyer.

A violin played mournfully from the room upstairs. I kept my coat and shoes, going slowly up the stairs, careful not to trip in the darkness. I turned into 221B, its door also left open, with tracks of snow through the entry. The windows were left open, and freezing wind blew through the entire house, the curtains filling the living room.

You stood beside the window, dressed in nothing but your bathrobe. The sleeves were tied up around your biceps with belts on both arms. You were playing the violin, a dark tune, a shiving tune, and I could see the ice hanging from the neck of the instrument.

"Come in, John," You yelled, your voice thick, almost sobbing. "Come in, before it's too late."

My throat tightened as you turned, and I could see all the puncture marks in your arms. White liquid seeped out of your wounds, and I felt hot tears on my cheeks, sharp against the frigid cold of the room.

The violin struck a sour note, and I jolted from sleep, thrust unwelcome into the cold darkness of our bedroom.

You had been playing the violin, after all. I heard its tune from where I laid.

My entire body ached with pain. Even my heart felt raw. I knew this feeling. I had felt it before.

Defeat.

* * *

You kept playing your violin as I came inside, your back toward me, facing the window. I stood behind my armchair for a moment, just watching you, memorizing every curve of your back, the way the fading sunlight radiated through your dark curls. So pristine.

The melody ended, and you turned. "You're awake."

"I love you, Sherlock," I stammered, trying to keep my breathing steady.

You cocked your head, eyes studying my face. "...Thank you?"

"I really do, you know." The corners of my mouth turned up for a brief second. "I don't think I say that enough."

"Sit down, John. You're very pale."

I pursed my lips, coming around and sitting in the armchair while you put your instrument away. I crossed my legs, angling my foot nearer to the crackling fireplace. You settled down in your chair, folding your hands under your chin like you normally do in thought. It charmed me, and my eyebrows loosened.

You motioned. "Talk."

"What about?"

"Obviously you came to talk about something, tell me something, so now's your chance." You bit the inside of your cheek. "Or, uh. If you want. In your own time."

I adjusted myself in my seat. True, I had come out of the bedroom with a prepared speech in mind, but as I sat across from you, all of my planning decided to leap from memory and board a train to cross the boarder.

"Mm... yes." I touched my lip, looking into the fire. "I just, ehm... I wanted to... say. Something."

"It's alright if you've forgotten, you've been ill all afternoon."

"No, I haven't forgotten. I just... didn't know where to start."

You sat back in your chair. "I'll wait, John. Just go ahead when you're ready.

"Alright." I nervously pulled at the collar of my jumper. "Well, uh... Sherlock, I think..." I glanced up at you, still watching me, completely still. "I mean, I'm really glad that you've gone through all the trouble you have, to help me and to figure this whole thing out."

"Of course," You answered, "why wouldn't I."

"You didn't have to. I just-... I don't know, Sherlock, would you just let me finish."

"Sorry. Go on."

I sighed. "I really appreciate all the things you've done for me, Sherlock, trying to help me." My eyes started to well up. "I don't want you to think you've done anything wrong, I don't want you to think you've failed."

Your expression changed. "Why."

I met your eyes, and immediately realized it was wrong.

"What have you done, John." You asked, the tone of your voice approaching panic.

"I haven't done anything," I answered, honestly.

"I don't like the way you're sounding."

"Hear me out."

Your eyes flashed, but you remained seated, your fingers still.

"Look, Sherlock. I'm finished."

"No."

"_Yes_. I want this to stop, Sherlock, and it isn't stopping. I can't sleep without being bombarded by nightmares and horrors far beyond the memories of war, and I can't stay awake without living in complete agony."

"Stop it. You're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking _perfectly_ straight, Sherlock."

I paused, swallowing hard, and then reached to where I had tucked my pistol between my jumper and the upper hem of my pants. Horror flashed across your face like lightning as I produced it, holding it on my lap, the cold barrel rough in my hand.

"I want this to end."

You leaned foward onto your elbows, staring me dead in the face.

"John. Listen to me. This will end. You will get through this. Hand me the pistol, and we can forget this ever happened."

"No. I've made up my mind."

"_John_."

"I can't go back to the ward, Sherlock," I cried, a few tears beginning to roll. "I can't keep taking that damn medicine, I can't go back to the doctor, or to Ella, or to anyone. I can't. I can't go back to the ward. I don't know what to do. I don't know. I want it to be over. I want this to end. I want to die."

"No," Your voice broke. "no, John. Look at me. Please, John, don't do this to me."

"I'm sorry."

"_John_."

"I won't let myself..." I cleared my throat, emotion tightening my lungs. "I won't let myself be left empty, Sherlock. Not like before."

"That is in the past, John. Those mistakes are dead and gone."

"No," I croaked, "They're not. They're right in front of me."

Your face went blank. The seconds of the clock ticked down, and every thought rushed out of my head, the pressure in my chest leading up to one final movement.

"I'm sorry."

I lifted the barrel to my temple, and, with one last resolve, pulled the trigger.

* * *

Next part up very soon


	30. Chapter 30

Sorry this took so long to write, studying has to come before fanfiction.

Also this chapter is a bit short especially after a long chapter but I knew I had to update tonight and the next section just was not happening. It'll be up tomorrow I promise! I just wanted to be able to get everything right before uploading it

Anyway the parachute for your cliffhanger

* * *

"You took the pills." You had whispered. "Good, John."

The trigger of my pistol clicked, but nothing happened. I pulled it again. Nothing. Again. _Nothing_.

"You really think you've got this whole thing figured out, don't you." I had looked up at you, half-conscious, buried underneath the sheets.

"I'll be back, John."

You had reached into my drawer. You had gone in for my gun. You had taken my gun.

_You had taken the bullets from my gun._

"No... No. No. _No_." My hands clenched over the body of the pistol, my chest building with pressure. "No, Christ, no... Sherlock. _Sherlock_!"

I clutched the pistol to my stomach, the weak pillars of my mental state crumbling to the ground. Hysterical sobs tore through my body, searing my throat as they came. You put your hand on my shoulder, but I pushed myself from the chair, collapsing in a heap on the ground. I clenched my eyes shut, screaming and praying that I would just die, burst a blood vein or have a seizure. But no; you stroked my hair, pulling my quivering torso into your lap, rocking me gently.

"John... John listen to me." You whispered, your eyes clouded with tears. "You'll get through this. It's almost over. You'll get through this."

You patted my chest firmly as you heard Mrs. Hudson's clicking footsteps come up the staircase. She looked horrified even before she saw me laying there, having heard the shrieks from her downstairs flat. "Oh my god, Sherlock, what's happened to John?" She cried, coming forward toward us.

"Shh, Mrs. Hudson. He's just had another attack."

"What's he got that gun in his hand for? By god, Sherlock, take it away from him! Please!"

You massaged my fingers until I gave up the pistol, handing it to Mrs. Hudson for safekeeping.

"Stand back, please, I'm going to move him to the couch."

She squeaked and stepped into the kitchen. You slipped your arm under my back and the other under my legs, lifting me easily and carrying me to the sofa, spreading me across and cushioning my head with a throw pillow. My lungs had tightened, making it increasingly hard for me to breathe, but I was still partially conscious, swaying my head back and forth to try to open my airway.

"Oh, my poor John," Mrs. Hudson choked, covering her mouth with her hand. "Do I need to call an ambulance for him, Sherlock?"

"No. No ambulance," You answered, quietly. You were sitting on the floor beside my head, smoothing back my hair and trying to calm me. You purposely avoided eye contact with Mrs. Hudson, trying to cover up your own emotion with a dark and serious tone of voice.

"Then what do we do, Sherlock?"

You watched my face, my eyes as I slowly faded from consciousness.

"I think we're going to need a car, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

We started the day off with a drop of sedative. Evidently you had saved it for a dire situation, but hoped not to use it. I assumed that excuse was bullshit, but I let you use it on me anyway. It had to be injected, and no doubt was illegal, but I didn't care. I was physically and mentally exhausted, and I don't think I would've made the car ride without having another emotional breakdown if I hadn't taken it. You still looked pained, however, as you pressed the needle into my arm.

Mrs. Hudson was happy to call for a car for us. You decided to drive rather than hire a driver, both to keep outside influences as distant as possible and to have as much control of the situation as you could. Our destination: 20 minutes west of Cardiff, Wales.

"I hope it isn't too much trouble to stay with my parents," I said, stretching my shoulders. "It was... fairly short notice."

"I'm sure they'll be very glad to see you, John. From what we know, I'm sure they've been worried about you."

"That's true." I sighed.

"If we get there in enough time, perhaps we-"

Your phone began chirping, the shrill tone surprising both of us. The car wavered a little in its route, but you gripped the steering wheel and kept it under control.

"Hand me my phone, would you, John?"

I grumbled, reaching into your coat pocket to take your phone. Instead of handing it to you, however, I answered it and held it to my own ear, shooting you a rebellious glance. "Hello?"

"John? This is Lestrade. I thought I called Sherlock."

"You did. He's driving at the moment."

"Oh. Can I, um, talk to him?"

I smiled at you, and you furrowed your eyebrows. "I'll hand it over as soon as we cross this bridge."

"Alright. You sound a lot better, John. I'm glad."

"Er, yeah. I guess the change of scenery has done a lot of good."

"I can tell."

"Just crossed. Here's Sherlock."

"Thanks, John."

I handed you the phone, and you glared as you took it, pinning it between your ear and your shoulder. "Lestrade."

You made several different kinds of remarks in the conversation, but none of them sounded positive. You were careful not to let me hear too much, or make deductions of my own, but I could tell that your mood changed for the worse. I pursed my lips and waited for you to set down the phone, watching as the hills rolled in the distance, pulling at the threads on the hem of my dark green jumper. When you said goodbye and tapped the screen of your mobile, I turned back.

"That didn't sound good," I said.

"It wasn't." You kept your lips tight, your eyes slightly glazed with thought.

I cleared my throat. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I'm not sure. How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Sherlock."

"How are you _feeling_?"

I sighed. "I _am_ feeling better, Sherlock. Not at all like last night." I rubbed my neck. "I guess the sedatives are to thank for that, in part. I want to be active, to still be involved. I don't want to be cradled through this whole situation, I want to know. I'm a man, not a child."

"You have to take your own health into account, John." You gave me a look mixed with worry and firmness. "You're more fragile than you think."

"Don't tell me what I am."

I turned back to the window, and you back to the road.

"Please just tell me, Sherlock. What did Lestrade say?"

"Ms. Anne Carter is missing from her flat. He got a warrant for her arrest, but when he arrived, the place was empty. Signs of a struggle. Obviously she was right in thinking that her client would not let her skive off for very long."

"Oh, god." I rubbed my forehead. "I hope she's alright."

"Once we arrive with your parents, we should sit down with them right away." You straightened your neck. "There's no more time left to lose."

* * *

Next part up soon


	31. Chapter 31

This chapter may be a little rough but I tried my best alright ergh

I really wish I was able to play with the Watsons a little more but eh I guess that's for another time

Enjoy x

* * *

My mother's shrill squeal made you jump. She bounded through the open door as we approached, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing me. You watched, an amusing gleam in your eye as you set our suitcase on the first step of the patio.

"Oh, John! I'm so happy to see you." She smiled, her eyes sparkling with tears.

"I'm good to see you too, Mum." I rubbed her back, careful not to hold her too tightly. She was still just as stick thin as ever, though I noticed the hollow of her cheek had gotten a little more prominent since the last I saw her. Stress line were evident under her eyes. "You've gained weight."

"Yes! A whole stone. It's wonderful." Her laugh fluttered like a butterfly. "Though it seems like you've lost even more than that. Have you been eating alright, John?"

"Eh, it's been a little more difficult keeping things down."

Her eyes flashed pain. "I'm sorry, dear. I've had the cook make your favorite soup, I know you'll enjoy it." She stretched on her toes and kissed my cheek, her lips spread again in a smile. "Come in, please, come in. It's too cold out here. Your father is waiting for us in the drawing room. The driver will take care of your car. Come in!"

You met my eyes as Mum pulled me by the hand up the stairs. She had hardly acknowledged your presence, and I'm sure it put a dent in your pride. But you followed quietly behind, your hands deep in the pockets of your great-coat, face buried within the folds of your scarf.

The grand house my parents owned rivaled even the beauty of Mycroft's own. It held no significance for me - I had grown up in a much smaller house in Brecon, about an hour north. My parents had moved my third year of secondary school, and I had lived with my older sister until joining the military. There were no memories here, except of holidays and Christmas dinners. Even those were scarce, however.

Although I was unintrigued, you drank in every detail. You had never been here, but you were used to the formalities, I would guess. Being related to Mycroft, you must've had to. Of course, I am talking about the man who arrived in Buckingham Palace in nothing more than a bedsheet.

Mum opened the wide door to the drawing room, where my father sat with a pipe in the crook of his hand. He stood to meet me as soon as we stepped through.

"John, my boy," His small smile was masked by a heavy mustache, but he embraced me with a kind of masculine fervor. He then turned to you.

You had never had any contact with my parents before. It was an entirely new experience for you, and by the look in your eye you were enjoying it. My father and I looked a great deal alike, to the pain of my mother. My father's wrinkled face and curved brow were flashes of familiarity in themselves. My entire childhood was filled with references to how much we looked alike, talked alike, behaved alike. But there was a sort of stubbornness about him that wasn't quite as evident in me. He looked at you with a cold gaze, examining you; not in the way you would examine a man, but judging whether or not you were a man worth trusting.

"So, you must be the famous Sherlock Holmes," He said, frowning.

"Yes sir. I've been looking forward to meet you. Mr. Watson." You extended your hand. After a moment of hesitation, he shook it.

"You've been keeping an eye on my boy, haven't you?" Dad asked.

"Yes, sir, if you'd like to call it that."

"Then I have reason to thank you."

"That's not necessary. It's my highest pleasure." You glanced at me.

"Very good." He circled back to his velvet lounge chair, picking up his pipe and holding it to his lips. "Go ahead, sit down."

I took a seat beside my mother on the sofa, while you strode over to the seat across from my father.

"Do you smoke, young man?" He asked.

"No." You answered.

"Good. It's a terrible waste of breath," Dad muttered, smoke floating up between his teeth. He adjusted his legs and tapped his pipe against the glass ashtray, emptying it and reaching for a can of tobacco to refill it. "I know that Patricia wants to believe that this is just a holiday visit, but it's not like you to just show up without a reason. Over the phone you seemed pressed for time."

I cleared my throat. "Yes, a little bit."

Dad tapped tobacco into the mouth of his pipe, glancing between you and I. "Was there a problem?"

"Yes, sir. There have been many _problems_, coincidentally."

He held eye-contact with you. "I would be much happier if you would speak straight, Mr. Holmes. I'm a busy man."

"Then excuse my lack of restraint. I'm not sure if you're fully aware, Mr. Watson, but I am a consulting detective who has worked alongside Scotland Yard for many years. I have spent my days dissolving terrorist cells and solving triple murder cases; there is hardly a rat that can run under my nose undetected, not in London. But in the case of your son, there is a large 'rat' that has been scrambling at my feet for quite some time, and has been causing quite a ruckus. We've come here because the rat's power has escalated and we've seen that it is in fact not a rat, but a demon."

"Unless you have a problem with rats and demons in your home, Mr. Holmes, I think you've missed my phrase of 'speaking straight'."

You sat foward on your elbows. "Mr. Holmes, there is someone who has been causing significant harm to your son. This person, this female person has both caused John's mental state to decay and his safety to be compromised. She has sent men into our house, poisoned and abducted John, and even planted spies to assure that her agenda has been met. I have done what I can to keep John safe, but I am grasping at straws if I don't know who is threatening him. There is a woman whose life is in danger if we do not find this villain quickly and dispose of her quietly. I wish that this was a simple holiday visit, Mr. Watson, but that is not the case."

As you leaned back, my father watched you, puffs of smoke swelling from the pipe. He was quiet for a few moments, his steel grey eyes carefully focused on you.

"This isn't something you can just jump right into, Mr. Holmes," He said. "This is a matter of business. Civility and diplomacy."

"Civility had no influence on their judgment when they poisoned John. Diplomacy had no place when they abducted him and tortured him."

"Even if I were to tell you, there is no way that you could possibly help."

"Let me try."

In tone, you were two rams, bleating angrily, petting your hooves into the ground and preparing to charge. Both of you were under heavy stress, and both of you were natural-born leaders, ready to take a stand on your opinion. Mum and I both sensed the sparks of tension between you.

"Sweetheart," She said, quiet but stern, "He's just trying to help. What harm would it be to let him know. John is here, he's not in any danger."

"We still have Harry to think about," He reminded her.

"The sooner you allow me to intervene, the sooner we can remove the threat from your children and from yourselves," You stated.

"Amateur detective or not, you have no power to remove the threat, and I see no usefulness in putting you and my son in danger to give you information you don't need to know."

"Dad, listen to me for a second." I adjusted myself, feeling all the eyes of the room. "I know that you probably don't think much of Sherlock, all his speel about his experience would go right over your head, I know it would. But you should trust him. To put it plainly, he's a logical genius. He can solve any problem within seconds, and he has dealt with cheating politicians and shady businessmen for a long, long time. Believe me, if there's anyone who can help you navigate your way out of whatever has happened, it's Sherlock Holmes."

His gaze was still cold, but I could see the flare of recognition.

"Hear John, Henry." Mum said, nodding. "Tell Mr. Holmes."

Dad sighed, sinking back into his chair and taking another draw from his pipe. "Where do you want me to start."

"The beginning," You said, folding your hands under your chin. "The _very_ beginning."

"Well, that's a bit farther back than you might think. I met the man back in university, when we were both hopeful students with an eye toward business. He was my friend for the beginning of my first year, but we parted ways shortly after that. He was never a good man. He was deceptive and vain, dealt a lot of drugs, ruined relationships and spread nasty rumors. Not trustworthy in the least. I kept my distance from him for the sake of my reputation, but he and I stayed in each other's minds for quite a while past that."

"What was his name?"

"Lecuyér. Willhem Lecuyér."

"Lecuyér... Lecuyér..." You closed your eyes, focusing intensely. "I know that name."

"His wine company has flourished the last few years. He's acquired considerable wealth."

"Yes. My brother has Lecuyér wine in his cellars."

"I see." Dad puffed, his frown deepening. "His business is not at all honest. He has a sort of small monopoly on drug imports from Afghanistan, and a considerable part of his wealth stems from that, rather than the wine. Even with the wine, however, he's used a lot of blackmail and... persuasion to get the funds he needs. He's very good at keeping his dealing covert, so nothing can be traced back to him."

"And now he wants you. For what? Funding?"

"No. He wants me to put my name behind one of his new launches. My entreprenuership is highly respected in the business world, especially for blossoming companies like Lecuyér's. And so, on the business side, it's rational. But he's also made it clear his interference is also a way to get his revenge on me, prove he was better than me after all." My dad gripped his pipe tighter. "He's smart, but he's immature. Always has to be on top."

"How is he communicating with you, then? E-mail? Phone?"

"In person, mostly. E-mails every now-and-again. He sets up meetings through my secretary, per the usual, and we discuss things in my study. He's given me deals time and time again that are not only disatisfactory, but also less than worth my time. Lately he's gotten better, but I'm still uncertain about putting my name behind a man as deceptive as Lecuyér."

"A good caution. Has he ever threatened you personally?"

"He's only made implications of it. If I decide to refuse his offer, he will bring up the topic of John, or Harry, or Patricia. Sometimes he will say things that he would never have been able to know. Harry's gotten a new mobile number, and evidently John has bought a dog. Gladstone?"

I nodded.

Dad flicked his lighter. "He's made it very clear that he has my children under his thumb, but never makes any remarks that could be used against him as evidence. When your mother heard of the threat, she spoke with a young woman who was on Lecuyér's personal staff to be sure that if he did make any move toward John, we would know."

"That was Anne," I sighed.

My mother nodded. "She was a dear."

"We knew Lecuyér was subtly poisoning John, but we felt helpless to do anything to stop him. We couldn't press charges, because we had no cold evidence that he was even involved. And we couldn't get him to willingly stop without answering his demands."

You tapped your lips. "So you waited."

He nodded. "We waited for something that we could use against him, but we are slowly but surely running out of options."

"There are methods of revealing a corrupt businessman," You said, "My brother is a sort of specialist on the subject. It will just take time." You paused. "But no, we don't have time. Anne Carter is in immediate danger, and John and Harriet are not far behind. We need to solve this case as soon as possible to avoid heavy losses."

"What do you propose we do, then?" Dad asked.

"Do you know Lecuyér's residency?"

"You can't enter his home, he would never invite you. I'm not going to risk a charge of burglary." He shifted. "There is a New Year's dinner scheduled for tomorrow night in Cardiff. Lecuyér will be attending, along with dozens of others; the highest in the business world. Patricia and I were not intending to go, due the circumstances, but if necessary we could change our plans. It wouldn't be difficult to request another invitation."

"Wonderful." You stood up quickly, pulling on you suit. "I will go with you to the dinner, and will be introduced to Mr. Lecuyér firsthand. If I cannot sniff out something to bring to court, I will make use of the specific talents of my brother."

"It would be very dangerous," Dad warned. "If Lecuyér realizes who you are and what you are doing, you could put everyone involved in danger."

"That is quite fine, Mr. Watson." You grinned. "I'm a bit of an addict."

* * *

Next part up soon


	32. Chapter 32

If I can keep up, Asphyxia should be finished by the end of the month. :3 I'm actually really excited.

I'm so happy this has got the attention it has, thanks you guys sooo much. You seriously make my life

Heads up these chapters might be getting longer because of all the things I want to encompass in them, but we'll see

Enjoy x

* * *

"No, John. It's too dangerous for you to go." You said, glancing across the room at me. "Not only for your mental health, but your physical health as well. You're a target of Lecuyér, and I can't determine what his reaction will be if he sees you in person. The probability is a negative one."

"I want to help," I replied, sitting on the bed. "I don't want to be cooped up here while everyone else is busy catching the villain."

"But that's for the best."

"For my physical state, yes. For my mental state, no."

You watched your reflection in the mirror, eyes glazed with thought.

"All finished, sir." The maid stood up from where she was crouched close to your ankle. "I'll take these measurements to the seamstress right away."

"Thank you. Be sure that the suit is here before we're due to leave for Cardiff tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

"And also request a suit for John. Evidently he'll be joining us as well. She should already have John's measurements on-file. Tell her to find one a little smaller than usual."

"Yes, sir."

"That's all." You flicked your wrist and the woman left, closing the door softly behind her.

A triumphant smile spread across my face, and I looked at the bedsheets to keep from making a fool of myself. You had noticed through the mirror and turned to look at me before studying himself again.

"You'll have to be very careful," You said, fixing your hair. "Stay close to me. Do _not_ ingest _anything_."

"I won't."

"If anything happens, just stay close to me. I'll make sure you're safe."

"Alright, I will."

You shed your shirt, walking over to where you had put our suitcase and pulling out your nightclothes. "This house is much warmer than the flat. Is our boiler in that bad of a condition?"

"It is pretty terrible."

"Most of the heat must come from the fireplace, then." You shrugged. "I'll have it replaced when we return home."

"I hope Mrs. Hudson is alright staying with Gladdie," I said. "She seemed rather spooked when we left."

"Yes, well I think that's excusable considering how much she worried about you last night."

I looked down at the bedsheets again. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"I know you are."

You sat down on the bed in front of me, close enough that your leg touched mine. I looked up at you, and you kissed me on the head. I could see, though, that there was a small bit of pain hidden behind your ice blue eyes, and I hunted it out.

"I didn't mean what I said, Sherock." I whispered. "When I said you were a mistake."

You pressed your lips together.

"I wouldn't have made it a day without you here to help me, and you know that." I reached to play with your hair, drawing my fingers onto the soft skin of your jaw, running my thumb across your cheekbone. You kept watching me; my eyes, my lips, my throat. Gently, I leaned forward, pulling your head towards mine and kissing you. You kissed me back, moving your hand to settle on my waist, easing me back into the pillows.

We laid there for a few long moments, enjoying each other's company and the taste of our lips. Your mouth explored, kissing at my mouth and my cheeks and my neck and my jaw. I breathed deeply, roaming my hands along your back and shoulders. Your scent was so soothing, so familliar. Raw and whole and sweet.

"I love you, Sherlock," I breathed, running my hands through your hair.

You smiled at me, answering me with a kiss. "That's pretty reckless of you."

I chuckled and yawned, stretching my legs out. "It's getting late."

"That it is." You reached over to turn off the lamp, not bothering to put away the suitcase, and settled down beside me. I felt you pull up the blankets around us, and I found my spot against your chest, the soft beating of your heart massaging my throbbing temple.

Then I remembered. "Sherlock, wait. The sedative."

Silence. "You want it."

"I'd prefer a good night of sleep."

You slid out from underneath me, turning on the lamp again and retrieving the vial. I sat up, rolling the arm of my sleeve up as you came closer, studying the bottle and then studying me. You looked conflicted; heartbroken, almost.

"Don't look at me like that," I said, quietly. "It's just so I can sleep without those dreams."

"I know." You knelt down beside the bed. "I just don't like it."

I rubbed your shoulder. "It's alright."

You paused, looking up at me. "I'll make Lecuyér answer for what he's done. I swear I will."

I smiled sadly. You leaned forward to kiss the crook of my arm, and prepared the syringe.

* * *

The next day was slow, but relaxing, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. My parents' home was warm and bright, still decorated with holly and gold from the holidays. The winter hadn't been so vicious out here, and snow only remained in little patches here and there. The sky was blue and clear, with only a few scattered clouds, and the sun shone brightly overhead.

Mum made a point of spending the day with me, catching up on things that were happening in London and filling me in on her latest gossip. I didn't mind it, in fact I quite enjoyed it. She sat with me at breakfast, both of us with plates piled with food, both of us only pecking at them. You watched us both, but stayed quiet most of the time, making grand deductions about our relationships while I enjoyed conversation with my mother.

She was a dear lady, thin as a stake but with plenty of vigor. She had struggled with an eating disorder for most of her life, improving for a short time while Harry and I were children, but relapsing back to it around the time was in secondary school. My father did his best to keep her healthy, but her disorder was serious, and it wouldn't die easily. She remained fairly hopeful throughout the ordeal, and I was happy to see that she seemed to be improving. Her fingers, though still hollow as needles, didn't quiver like they used to.

When Mum learned of your talent on the violin, she was ecstatic, and gladfully told the tale of how she was a wonderful pianist when she was young, but her health kept her from playing as well as she used to. But she was in love with the classics, Chopin and Bach among others, and asked you to play for her.

"I would, but I'm afraid I didn't bring along my violin," You said, folding your hands.

"Well, then you can use ours!" She beamed. "I adore the violin, though I never could play it very well, it's still a beautiful piece of decoration for our music room. We'll go in there, and you can play it for us. Of course, it might need a fine bit of tuning."

"I'll tune it by ear," You said.

"Fine man! Let's be going, then!" She stood from her chair.

The music room was a long room with a vaulted ceiling, arched windows opening up onto the lawn. The house-hands had just finished dusting, so the entire room looked clean and sharp. There was a nut-brown grand piano beside one of the windows, sparkling in grandeur. In one corner stood a large cello and bass, alongside a violin and its twin viola. Two wide shelves full of music from the masters were set against the wall, with a vintage record player on a table between them.

Your eyes got big when you saw your instrument of choice, and picked it up with gentle hands.

"A Vuillaume," You exclaimed.

"Yes, I got it for quite the reasonable price at an auction last spring." Mum said, taking a seat. "The bows are along the wall there."

You walked over to pick one out, and I seated myself beside my mother.

"Do you have any requests, miss?" You asked as you began to tune the instrument.

"Do you know Bach's Partita number 2?"

"Yes." You lifted the instrument to your neck and began to play, the bow gliding across the strings with familliar ease.

Mum listened to a few notes, then turned to me and chuckled. "Where did you find a man like this, John? My, if I hadn't met your father, this guy would be first on my list!"

I smiled. "A game of chance, I'm glad it turned in my favor." I glanced at you.

"So am I, so am I. I'm glad you have a better taste in men than you had in women."

"Mum."

She laughed. "I'm only teasing, John. Though your girlfriends never were quite as lovely as Mr. Sherlock here."

I sighed. "Yes."

"I'm very happy for you two. I think you'll be very happy together." She smiled, loosely wrapping her arm with mine and leaning her head against my shoulder.

"Thank you, Mum." I kissed the top of her head, setting my chin to rest on it, enjoying the sweet smell of her perfume, transporting me back to my childhood days when she would hold me the way I was holding her now. "That means a lot to me."

Mum straightened, patting my hand. "And soon enough I'm certain to have grandchildren."

"Grandchildren?" I sputtered. "Well, Mum, it's a little early to be thinking about that, don't you think?"

"Never too early, love! You _are_ getting rather old, it's best to start thinking about adopting, hmm? Or perhaps having a surrogate mother? Oh, a little baby boy with Sherlock's handsome cheekbones, that would be wonderful!" She clasped her hands together, looking off. "Or a little girl with blonde, curly hair, tied up in bows. I can just picture them, running around, causing mischief. I would spoil them every day, John, oh, they would be spoiled rotten, the dears."

"Um, I think you're getting a _little_ bit carried away."

"We'll have Christmas parties every year, just so I can see them. With hearty dinners and golden ham, I'll bake your father's favorite pecan tarts, and the little ones will eat all the cranberries, just like you and Harriet used to, do you remember? You would get those berries all over your clothes and in your hair, but you would have the widest grin on your face, I never could quite scold you for it. It'll be the same with yours, I just know it."

"Mum, we're not even married yet."

"You need to teach the grandchildren to play, always teach them to play. I wish I had gotten you and Harriet to play, the house would've been filled with music all the time. Hopefully they'll inherit the skills of their father, oh, listen to him. I haven't ever heard it played so beautifully, and all from memory! Ah, my heart is full." She set a hand over her chest, smiling at you wistfully. "I'd keep him if I could."

"Sorry, he's already been claimed."

Mum chuckled. "I'd imagine so."

"Mum... I wanted to ask you about something."

She turned. "What is it, dear?"

"It's about Anne."

"Anne Carter? Oh, that poor girl. She's such a sweetheart." Mum sighed. "Hired her for a short time while we traveled to Paris in 2008. Guard work, you know. She's also very good with hair. But anyway. She and I really connected, she's a lovely soul, and we stayed in touch past the time when she was relieved. Some time ago she started working for this man Lecuyér... Told me she couldn't bear hurting us, or you. She agreed to help us by staying with Lecuyér and promised to let us know if there was a serious attempt on your life or health."

"I see."

"She really is a sweetheart. She told me lots of things about you and Sherlock, what you were doing, where you were. She told me what had been happening to you, that they were making you sick. It made me so sad. It hurts me to think that a man could have so much anger to want to hurt a man's son just to get his money. What's happened to the world?" Her eyebrows knitted. "I'm sorry, John."

"It's not your fault, Mum. You've done your best." I rubbed her shoulder.

"Your father's been worried about you, too." She said. "Don't let his stormy exterior get the best of you. He would pace his room for hours thinking about what dangers he was putting your through. Worried himself sick, the man. He's too independent sometimes, tries to take too much on himself. I'll be so glad when this is dealt with, and he can finally rest. Put his feet beside the fire and smoke his pipe in peace."

"I'm looking forward to that, too."

"We all are." She smiled. "It's just up to your fiancé now."

"That it is. What about Harry?"

"Harriet is alright. Been spooked a few times, but nothing more than usual. Gone back to drinking." She shook her head. "Still rebellious, after all these years."

"Do you have an Anne Carter watching Harry, too?"

"Aha, no, I don't. We've had a body-guard assigned to Harriet for some-odd years now, he hasn't reported any suspicious activity, beside the spooks I mentioned. It seems like the attention had been focused on you, either because you were the most receptive to it, or because you were the baby of the family." She smoothed my hair. "But Sherlock's been taking care of you, hasn't he?"

"Yes, of course. I probably wouldn't have made it without him," I laughed, skating around the dark truth to those words.

"That's good." She smiled, touching my cheek gently. "I give you both my love."

"Thank you, Mum."

She nodded, letting her hands fall back to her lap. We leaned back and listened to your vibrant melody, echoing along the walls of the house.

* * *

Next part up soon


	33. Chapter 33

I just got to re-watch Sign of Three and ? why does the ending have to be so sad I legit cried

Thanks you guys for all the reviews and favorites and follows you all deserve gold stars

Enjoy the next chaptah

* * *

The party began at eight-thirty, sharp, in a large estate owned by a friend of my father's. A fellow entrepreneur, and a very successful one at that. His home was practically a palace, even moreso than my parents'. I couldn't imagine living in a house so spacious.

All the guests were entertained in the largest room in the house, the center cleared of furniture to make way for dancing. Beside the window, a string band was playing ("Pachelbel," you noted), and brought a fresh English taste to the event. Expensive suits and floor-length dresses flashed around, the bright lights of the chandeliers sparkling off of diamond jewelry and hair-pins. Even in my new suit, I felt underdressed.

My father took me by the arm. "There are many prominent people here. Mr. Schwann, a Swiss banker, very influential inside the European Union, there he is with his two daughters. Mrs. Adeline Ross, the wife of the French dignitary, and her son Abel. Beside the door is Dr. Westel Haren, he's spent most the last few years in Russia dealing with political corruption there."

"And where is Lecuyér?" I asked, hushedly.

He looked around. "I don't see him. I'll point him out when I see him." He released me and took the hand of my mother. "Keep your fiancé on a tight leash. I don't want him causing a ruckus."

"Alright." I took a breath, moving closer to you.

"Is he in the room?" You asked, standing to your fullest height in an attempt to see over heads.

"Dad hasn't seen him yet. We should be on the lookout."

"Well, in that case." You extended your hand. "Let's dance."

I glanced around. "Do you think it would draw attention?"

"Not any more than the usual."

"And what is the usual?"

"Dance with me, John."

I sighed, taking your hand.

You led me toward the crowd of dancers, swinging and swishing in their long gowns and bright ties. We got a good deal of glances, but as you had noted, it wasn't any more than the usual. When we reached the edge of the group, you set your hand beneath my shoulder and clasped my hand in yours, pulling me out into a spin to line up with the others. It was fairly difficult keeping up with a dancer such as yourself, but luckily we'd had plenty of practice before we left (much to the enjoyment of my mother).

"There are plenty of wealthy men here, Sherlock," I said, just quiet enough so that other dancers couldn't hear. "Wealthier than my parents. Why, then, did Lecuyér pick out them?"

"Childhood grudges." You shrugged. "Practice."

"Practice?"

"He could be planning on a seize on a wealthier victim in the future, this would just be a warm-up game. But I'll need to meet him myself to deduce anything about his intentions." You scanned through the crowd around us as we danced. "He should be easy enough to spot."

"No one has said what he looks like."

"I don't go by _looks_, John." Your eyes flashed. "There. Your father's seen him. Let's get over there."

You spun me to the outside of the crowd, leading me by the hand toward where my parents stood, chatting with their friends. Another man, I noticed, had begun to approach too. You strategically placed yourself between him and I.

"Mr. Watson, what a pleasure."

Lecuyér was about your height, maybe a smudge shorter. He had dark hair that he wore neatly combed, a thin mouth, and small, piercing eyes that glistened green. His teeth were white and distinct Greek nose. His suit was a crisp black, with a red tie and bushel of holly on his breast, its smell sharp and unpleasant. From head to toe he looked the part of malicious white-collar criminal. He shook hands with my father, then laid eyes on me.

"And you must be John," His lips upturned in a smirk. "I'm so glad I have the pleasure of meeting you in person."

He extended his hand toward me, but you took it instead.

"Sherlock Holmes," You inserted.

"Oh, yes. I know who you are. Internet phenomenon." Lecuyér turned to me. "I've kept up with your blog."

"I'm flattered," I smiled, my left hand resting still against my side.

"You have the skill of a man who has worked with journalism for many years," He noted.

"Mm, no sir," I chuckled. "Just various letters. Besides the blog."

"Your talent is impressive."

"Thank you."

He nodded, his eyes still fixated on me, giving me a quick glance-over. The half-smile half-snarl of his lips reminded me of a lion, curling its jaws in anticipation of a meal, an injured gaselle or zebra in front of him. I slunk back, his bloodthirsty gaze turning my throat dry.

After a moment or two of silence, you spoke up. "I'm in the mood for punch," You declared.

"Oh, would you bring me a glass, dear?" Mum asked.

"Of course, Mrs. Watson." You gave her a smile and then slid around her, brushing your hand against my back for me to follow you.

"What have you got?" I asked as soon as we were out of earshot.

"History of violence. Abusive father, absent mother. No siblings. Divorced, twice." You glanced back. "No, three times. Two children, one estranged. A girl and a boy. The girl is our E. I was right, his motive seems to be a grudge. A very, very strong one. Underdeveloped morally, but cunning mentally. Devious. He's dressed up extraordinarily well tonight, he's looking forward to something. Wants to be at the top of his game."

"Or maybe it's because we're at a party," I retorted.

"No. He got his hair cut, expensive cut. Maybe it was a coincidence? No. Fingers, manicured. Teeth freshly whitened. Eyebrows waxed. Also, massage. He was tense. Looking forward to something, then." You scowled and poured a glass of the punch. "Rehearsed. He's rehearsed this, over and over. Meeting you. Meeting me. Gotten information on you, looked into your blog. Looking forward to you, then."

"You never cease to amaze me," I murmured, then glanced at your cup. "I thought you said not to ingest anything."

"I told you not to ingest anything." You took a long gulp, then paused to pour my mother a glass. "Seems alright. Too much sugar."

"Sherlock, I think we have a shadow."

"What?"

"Sherlock." I jabbed your side, and you turned around.

A young woman came toward us from the left, a glass of deep red wine in her hand. Her eyes glistened a distinct shade of amber, her hair falling in sleek waves over her shoulders. Her floor-length black dress immediately caught my attention, the tight lace bodice leaving little to the imagination. A string of pearls hung around her neck, a dangerous mixture of sexy and simple, drawing my eyes immediately to her bust before I caught myself.

"Good evening, gentlemen," She smiled, her gaze reflecting the same carnevorous anticipation that her father had shown. "How are you enjoying the refreshments?"

"I was expecting a bit more from it," You answered, holding your head high and refusing to release eye contact with her, "In all honesty."

"Hello, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She extended her hand, and he grasped it lightly. "Elouise."

"Elouise. It's been a pleasure." You bent down to kiss her fingers, pressing your lips against her gold ring.

I shifted. "You've met?"

"We've chatted," She answered, glancing at me. "Why, you're looking rather pale, doctor." With a small smirk, she leaned in toward me. "Have you seen a dragon?"

My nostrils flared, my mask of composure slipping away.

"It's very rude not to include all members of a party in your conversation, Ms. Lecuyér," You cleared your throat. "What brings you here."

"Oh, I just wanted to say hello." Elouise turned back to you, her hair bobbing. "Have you enjoyed the dancing?"

"It would be much more enjoyable if I would have a more... _advanced_ partner," You answered, quickly adding, "no offense to you, John."

"Exactly what I had imagined," She nodded.

You handed me the glass of punch. "Do you dance, Ms. Elouise?"

"Only when presented with the right opprotunity." A small smile slid across her features. "Would you do me the honor, Mr. Holmes?"

"It would be my pleasure." You took her hand, and she thrust her glass of wine into mine.

"Take care of this for me, would you, Watson?" Elouise batted an eyelash at me.

"Don't let me interrupt you," I grumbled, holding both glasses and motioning you off with one. "Go, go."

Elouise looped her arm with yours, and you guided her toward the dancing, both of you elegant in stride and stature. You almost reminded me of two large peacocks, ruffling up your feathers and putting on a good show before descending into a battle of beaks, talons, and wild bird-shrieks. I muttered a curse and went back to my mother, now standing alone near one of the dessert tables.

"Here you are, Mum," I said, handing her the punch.

"Thank you, thank you, you're a dear." She took a sip, making a short sound of relish. She then bumped my arm and motioned toward the dance. "Looks like Sherlock has met Elouise, hasn't he?"

"Seems he has." I watched you and the daughter Lecuyér, swirling near the center of the group. I had to admit, it was nice to watch. I turned back to my mother. "Where's Dad?"

"He's gotten off with Lecuyér again, going to smoke or something of the like. In the library, west wing."

"Alone?!"

"Yes, yes. It wasn't like he had the room to say no; you should've seen the man's expression! I was fearing for the safety of everyone within seven meters of the man! Might've gotten their eyebrows burned off when his hoarde of demons came up to repeat him." She chuckled. "Scary man. His daughter's very beautiful though. Too bad she's about as rotten as he is. That same look, you know."

"I've noticed."

"Oh, I see Laura there beside the window. I'm going to go and say hello." Mum tugged on the sleeve of my suit, pecking my temple. "You be good now. Keep an eye out, alright?"

She turned to wander off toward her friends before I could get another word in, giggling something about detectives.

So I stood there, a glass of red wine in my hand, my fiancé dancing with the woman who abducted me, and my father smoking with the man who had told her to. All was as normal, at least. I sniffed at the glass, taking a small taste of it, if only to be rebellious, and started to maneuver my way toward the west wing.

* * *

When I had finally found the library my mother described, Lecuyér and my father had already been there for some time. I heard their voices from the hall, where the noise of the string band was only a whisper in the background. They were discussing some kind of business, Lecuyér explaining the profits and expenses of the new "deal" he had drafted. I strained my ears to hear the details, but through the thick oak doors I could only make out every other word.

Gently, I eased open the doorway, realizing to my delight that the library was much bigger than I had expected. It consisted of two floors, connected by stairways on the right and left. Huge windows gave us a beautiful view of Cardiff, lights sparkling small in the distance. In the center of the room were a set of chairs for reading and a beautiful mahogany chess table. My father sat to the left of the table, his chair angled to face the door. Lecuyér was engaged in a long speel of monologue, pacing the floor in front of him.

"All I need, Henry, the final piece is your name behind mine. Your voice, that's all I need. Your signature on a piece of paper. Is that so difficult?"

Dad removed his pipe, blowing smoke through his nose and looking Lecuyér in the eye. "I won't be any part of this."

"Anything you want, Watson, you'll have it. You'll have gold enough to fill a well. Your reputation will grow. You and your family will live long, happy lives together."

He narrowed his eyes, purposefully ignoring me as I slipped inside. "Your actions will catch up with you, Lecuyér."

"Are you trying to scare me, hmm? By bringing a detective in to sniff me out?"

"I didn't call him. I didn't ask him to do anything."

"But you sure hope he does do something, don't you?" He laughed, and it vibrated through the room. "That's where you're hopelessly lost, Mr. Watson. You see, even if you do convince someone, anyone, whether he be a detective or a boiler-man, that I somehow threatened you or your family, there is no way possible for you to prove it. I've not been idle all these years, either, Henry."

"In time, there's always a way," Dad responded.

Lecuyér shrugged. "Yes, I guess so. But, not before my men recieve the order to slaughter poor Harriet, or poor John, or poor Patricia. It wouldn't be me pulling the trigger, oh no. It's not my bank account their payment comes from. My men know what to do when you make a wrong move, and they will do it reflexively."

My father took another draw from his pipe, sitting in silence while he rolled Lecuyérs words over on his tongue. I kept quiet, hidden behind a tall row of shelves, cupping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of my breathing. How I had managed to sneak in undetected, I had no idea, but I hoped that luck continued to be on my side.

"Listen," Dad said, leaning forward. "Will. You're a better man than this. You have so much potential as a businessman, but you bury it with murk and deception, and it is not going to turn out in your favor forever. Maybe if you would've pulled this shit over on some other family, some other man, it might have worked. But not on this family. And not on this man. You can burn your damn deal. I'm done with it, and I'm done 'negotiating' with you."

He stood up, squaring his shoulders and looking firmly at the taller man.

"You will face the consequences of everything you've done to my son, and everyone else you've tramautized in your greed."

Dad moved to walk past him, but Lecuyér slid his feet and stopped him.

"One last proposition, Watson."

I heard a distinctive click behind me, and every drop of blood in my body went cold.

"You aggree to my terms - _all_ of my terms - and you walk out of this house with your wife and your son and his fiancé. Live happily ever after."

The cold mouth of a barrel pressed against the nape of my neck.

"Or, you can disagree, and you walk out of this house with one less family to worry about."

* * *

Next part up soon


	34. Chapter 34

I hope this chapter doesn't feel rushed to you guys because I'm just not sure :/ Let me know if there's anything here that I didn't do well enough or anything it's another one of those chapters that I'm super unsure about but I hope you guys like it because it's a wee bit important.

Ugh I'm super excited how about you guys.

Enjoy x

* * *

The cold barrel and firm hand pushed me from my hiding place behind the shelves, and my father's face hardened when he saw me. He pulled the pipe from his lips, setting it against the table. I stood still, still held back by the grip on my upper arm, a big, scarred hand wrapping nearly all the way around. My captor smelled like medical tape and blood, and it almost made me sick. But I held my posture, pressing my lips tightly together, meeting my father's eyes.

"You're _bloody insane_, Lecuyér." He growled, fuming.

"Not insane," He grinned, turning a circle around me. "Only firm."

"Why are you doing this."

"It's simple, really. You have money, reputation, fame. I have use for them. You have a family, children, a wife, all of whom you love. And I have a point that needs proving. You, Watson, have not beaten me."

Lecuyér brushed off the shoulders of his suit.

"You would have liked to think so, hmm? Even when we were young, you always loved to shove me down in the dirt, trample on me and spit at me. Call it a fantasy, I don't mind, but I always knew that I would be able to repay you for the things you did to me. The insults you subjected me to. The horrible things you called me."

"You deserved every word, you sick bastard," He bit.

Lecuyér narrowed his eyes at Dad, and the gun dug deeper into my neck.

"I would watch the way you address my father, Mr. Watson." Sang a voice that stabbed my memory. Elouise strode around me, her dress swishing around her ankles. She gave me a defiant smirk, setting her hand on the one that held me. "Isn't he such a fine man, Argall? Such an obedient lap dog." She trailed her hand up his arm. "My lap dog, fierce as a wolf. I'd bet twenty pounds that he could rip John's throat out by the teeth."

"Don't you dare touch him," My father snapped.

Elouise shot him a glance, setting a fingernail against my cheek and scraping a fine line down.

"You're a monster, Lecuyér."

"A monster, yes. A monster who has claimed victory." Lecuyér laid a sheet of paper over the chess table, a pen beside it. He stooped in front of my father, fiercely whispering, "Admit when you are beaten."

Dad collapsed back into his chair, his eyes locked with mine. I furrowed my eyebrows, silently demanding that he not dare sign those pages. But he knew he didn't have a choice, if he was going to retain my health and sanity.

"If I do this," He said, "You'll leave John be."

"Yes. He'll live happily ever after."

He glanced at Lecuyér, then grasped the pen, lifting it to the page.

You then took your turn at a grand entrance. I saw you on the upper floor, idly pacing and reading a leather-bound book. "Sherlock!" I called, causing everyone to look at me and then turn to look at the stairs. You didn't bother to glance up, your shoes making soft thumps along the floorboards.

"Don't bother signing those, Mr. Watson," You said, closing the book. With a leap, you swung yourself onto the hand-railing, sliding along until you reached our floor, a proud smirk in your eye. "Hello, John. You've gotten yourself into a lot of messes lately, haven't you."

"Seems I have." Argall pressed the gun firmer into my neck, and I croaked.

Lecuyér turned, his chest broadened toward you. "This matter does not concern you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Actually, it does." You looked over Lecuyér, pursing your lips. "You're a very intelligent man, Lecuyér. Sure-footed, knowledged in crime, with a very acute sense of pride; we wouldn't have gotten along at all if you weren't a man of drug crimes and black operations. You've played a good game - probably would've made it, too, if you hadn't overlooked the small detail of the world's only consulting detective being engaged to your victim-of-choice."

"Just another challenge," He replied.

"A challenge that you were fatally underprepared for."

"For a consulting detective, you're awfully dull." Elouise laughed.

"Dull? No, no, if there's anything that I'm not, it's dull. I'm not dull, Ms. Elouise." You stepped towards her. "Your entire scheme is written in your face, in your posture, the final punctuation in the way you dance."

"Oh, you liked my dancing?"

"You loved Anne. She was like a sister to you. She's served as your personal body-guard for years, a pretty cat to purr when you were lonely. You were friends. You were close. But she didn't approve of your actions, did she? She didn't like the way your pranced around your father's fortune, obeying every word, just waiting for your share of the spoils. That wasn't all, though, you _liked_ it. You _liked_ getting to dance apart from the law. You were dangerous. You were cunning. You enjoyed having the upper hand, holding the reigns, watching a person's lifeblood seep through your fingers. You're a sadist, and a witch."

"All lovely compliments, Sherlock, but I must admit, I thought you could do better."

"Oh, I can." You turned back to Lecuyér, walking in circles around him. "You, Lecuyér, you were the head man, weren't you. You hated Watson, you wanted him to feel the same pain that you did all those years ago, when he would ridicule you and make you suffer. You want to be the man ahead of him, you want his name to be under your control so that you can slander it and abuse it the way he did to yours. But that wasn't enough for you, you wanted more, your fantasy was not complete just with ruining his reputation. You had to be in complete control. You had to push him, just enough until he realized that you were in charge, you were better than him, you had beaten him. You wanted to have his entire world trapped within your fingers, to pull the strings and watch him beg for mercy."

You smirked, staring him in the face.

"You should know, Lecuyér, that rats cannot compete with wolves."

"Oh, can't they?" He took a step around you, looking over your every feature. "A noble thing for you, a street rat yourself, to say. What are you doing here, Mr. Holmes? This isn't your arena. You're out of your element. I am no crime lord, I am a businessman. Malicious intentions are part of the game. Anger walks hand-in-hand with determination." He brushed a piece of dust from your shoulder. "I already _have_ Watson's world between my fingers. Yours, too, I've realized. It's not something I strive for, it's something I _own_. You are useless now. You've failed."

"Not yet, I haven't."

Elouise grunted. "What are you going to do, pull a gun on us?"

"Well, I have that, but I prefer to solve my problems intellectually."

"There is _nothing_ you can do now, Mr. Holmes."

"It's ingenious, actually," You continued, "the way you planned this. It's not your bank account, not your men, not even your orders at time, are they? I might be able to pull a gun and get you into court, but even then, what could I do? There's no paper trail linking you to any of the crimes, nothing except a businessman's fierce hatred and his daughter's blind devotion. But, perhaps, with the testimony of a key witness, a young woman who has been given access to every single file, every single bank account, every single room that either have you have visited. She would know. Anne Carter."

"Anne Carter is in _my_ custody now, if you haven't forgotten." Elouise folded her arms. "And as soon as the word reaches that either my father or I have been arrested, she'll be slaughtered on the spot. You don't know where she is, or how to have her released."

You smiled. "Oh, but I do. It's been proven to me time and time again, Ms. Elouise, that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. You loved Anne, you wanted her close to you. You enjoyed her company. You told her everything, you let her permeate your thoughts and your feelings and she knows you well, far too well. But that was your mistake. You let someone else in, you let someone else hold all the keys to your kingdom. This, _this_ was the fatal flaw in your plan, the final stab, the last delicate string that brought your entire masterpiece crumbling down."

"Anne is as good as dead to you," She snapped.

"I'm not talking about Anne." You said, leaning in. "Your mistake was not that you had a spy within your ranks - it was that you had _two_."

The room fell into silence. Slowly, gently, the gun moved from behind my head, the hand removed from my arm. I jumped foward, toward you, away from the threat. But as I turned, I saw the man, Argall, holding his weapon steady, aimed at Elouise's head."

"A-Argall?" She cried, eyes wide. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, miss." He kept his expression firm. "Orders are orders."

"And now, I think it would be appropriate to use this." You pulled a small pistol from the small of your back, lowering it at Lecuyér. "Get on your knees, Willhem Lecuyér. You have been beaten."

Then, Lecuyér began to laugh. Its dark sound echoed throughout the room, drawing in every shadow, chasing away my sense of safety. I fumbled for my mobile phone, while you kept your eyes narrowed on the man. My father gripped the pen, watching Sherlock with an intense kind of interest. A deep, trustworthy glance, flickers of impression dancing across his eyelids.

"You're smart, Mr. Holmes," Lecuyér said, drawing a gun from his own pocket, and letting it settle on my father's temple. "But in the face of _power_, you are weak."

Trigger.

Blood painted the head of my father's chair. His hand hung limp, dripping red wine onto the floor, pools of it collecting beneath his feet. Small white flowers came flowing from his eyes and mouth, soft and sweet, smelling of vanilla and tobacco and the faint scent of gunpowder.

Lecuyér fell, shot in the shoulder. Elouise also met her knees, crying out in hysterics, her dress accented in sparkles of pure red blood. Horrified, you turned away from the flowers blooming from my father's skull.

Around me were nurses, policemen. I didn't know how much time had passed. But there was a trail of white flowers and red wine, and the whole room reeked of tobacco. I turned to you, sitting beside me, with your hands folded over your lips, trembling to keep the stray stars of tears from falling out of your eyes.

"Is he dead?" I asked, my voice small.

You nodded, without meeting my gaze. "I'm so sorry, John."

I pressed my lips together, focusing to hold on for just one more second before the emotions came.

"It's over."

You grasped my arm, pulling me tightly against your chest.

"Yes, John. It's over."

* * *

Final part up tomorrow! Stay tuned x


	35. Chapter 35

The final chapter of Asphyxia is here! I'll upload a formal author's note after publishing this, so go ahead and start reading.

Enjoy xxx

* * *

"Argall. The man you held hostage, who vanished out of thin air from his cell. He was your secret weapon all along."

"Yes. It became very evident after Anne explained her story. When she made an attempt to kidnap John, her plan was to transport him to a safe-house in northern Scotland, out of reach by Elouise. This is the truth, but it didn't connect. She was a young woman weighing 50 kilograms, and though she was trained in martial arts, against a 85 kilogram ex-soldier, she was hopeless. Her plan never would have worked had she been alone, and she would've known that. Argall, then, must have been assisting her in the plan also. Why would he disrupt their plans, then? Why would he blow her cover? Because Argall realized that there was a way to not only save John, but to topple Lecuyér's kingdom on himself at the same time. He decided to stay in Elouise's employment, waiting for the opprotune moment to reveal himself. He waited until I had moved them into a position of weakness, and then fufilled his deal with Mrs. Watson."

"Mrs. Watson, John's mother."

"Yes. She was devious, and very cunning. I'd like to discuss with her in more detail about the extent of her plans for John. No doubt she had already thought of an alternative method of exposing Lecuyér herself."

"That is all good." Mycroft crossed his legs, idly tapping the handle of his umbrella. "But, I'm curious. John was poisoned by Elouise, overdosed on his own anxiety medication. But how? The pills you studied were perfectly ordinary."

"Exactly. It took a while, but Elouise admitted to hiring the burglar."

"The burglar?"

"Yes. John had claimed to hear him, but I hadn't believed him. The burglar came every few days and replaced John's anxiety pills with duplicates, the only change being that the duplicates were painted with a benzodiazepine concentrate. The concentrate caused John to quickly overdose. In addition, there was a nurse who was paid off to botch the doctor's tests so that John would not show signs of overdose. Very subtle, very smart, almost completely undetectable."

"You say it as if it was a good thing," I grumbled from the kitchen.

"Not the affect it had on your health, of course." You folded your hands under your chin. "We got the burglar's name - a young French boy named Favél. No connections beside the break-ins, he's only earned himself a light sentence. Elouise and her father are both going to court, Lecuyér for first-degree murder, Elouise for accessory to murder, assault, and kidnapping. Anne Carter and Jack Argall are the key witnesses in the case, and I'm certain that we will not be seeing much from the Lecuyér family for quite some time. Their employees are now being investigated as well."

"Very good. Any ties to Moriarty's web?"

"Not many, and of the few, not strong ones. Anne has given witness that Lecuyér was the head of a drug cartel based in Afghanistan, but there is nothing in his personal files that lead there. Finding ties might give us a few hints, but so far investigations have been fruitless. In any case, I highly doubt any relationship between Lecuyér and Moriarty."

"That's good news for us, then."

"Yes, it is."

"And what of the Watson family?" Mycroft glanced across the room to me. "Henry Watson had a funeral, did he not?"

"He did. It was well attended. Lots of tears and well-wishes. No threats." You leaned back. "Mrs. Watson is still grieving, but Ms. Carter has elected to stay with her for a short time until we can be sure of her mental and emotional status."

"She's getting along alright, I think," I added in, scrubbing off some of the dishes in the sink. "She's a strong woman. I talked to her head of staff, and he'll give me a call if he sees any danger signs. I'm keeping in touch. My sister Harry is making arrangements to move back to Cardiff, too, so that she can help her out."

"Good, good." Mycroft swung his umbrella. "It seems like you two have already ironed out the final details, then."

"Most of them. John's changed doctors - though he still refuses to leave his therapist - and we've installed a new security system in the house. We'll keep that damn dog, too. He might come in handy someday. I'm holding the medication for my own experimental purposes, but it will stay locked away and out of anyone's system."

"This whole thing could've been easily avoided if you'd just listened to me in the first place," I called, drying off my hands. "I knew those pills were bad knews. If you hadn't been so convinced of your own theories you might've solved this case sooner."

"Mm, I'll work on that."

I paused, glancing into the oven. "Oh my god, Sherlock."

"What?"

I blinked in disbelief, pulling the oven door open. "Why the _hell_ is this... my _god_, Sherlock. Let me guess, you deleted this too." I frowned, pulling the long, wrapped box out of the oven. I stomped into the living room, holding it in front of your face. It smelled like ash and dirt, but it was definitely Mycroft's gift from the Christmas party.

"You still haven't opened it?" He chuckled. "Under any other circumstances, I might've been offended."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. It's just that my _partner_ likes to put things in obscure places and then _forget_ about them."

"Who says I forgot?" You smirked at me, and I glared as hard as I could glare.

"I'll open it now." I brought it over to the kitchen table, peeling off the yellow ribbon and digging into the paper. It opened easily, revealing a tall bottle of bright champagne. As I lifted it out, the word _Lecuyér_ shimmered at me like a taunting bit of headline. I tightened my jaw, turning back and holding it for him to see.

"An auction," He shrugged. "I guess it's a bit strange now, though."

You and I stared at him blankly.

He adjusted himself. "If you're thinking that I somehow knew about this beforehand, you're wrong. It's just... an odd coincidence."

I just looked at the bottle and laughed, walking to get the corkscrew. "Well, let's hope it makes up for all the trouble."

Mycroft nodded, tapping again at his umbrella. There was a short moment of silence before he cleared his throat, crooking his head to the side. "Well, Sherlock, you've solved the case. What now?"

You stood from your seat, followed by your brother.

"We live on," You answered.

Mycroft extended his hand to you, and you shook it firmly.

"Good afternoon, brother-dear."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

* * *

Night seemed to come quickly. We enjoyed a glass of the Lecuyér champagne, and to my horror, it was actually very good. You stirred up the fireplace, and we lounged in our armchairs of choice, idly chatting and watching the sun set across the wall. You sighed deeply; your mind was at rest, finally. It had enjoyed its moment of triumph, and now stretched out again, relishing in the soft quiet of the crackling fire. The light danced across your pale skin and fluttered through your curls.

"It's too bad Lecuyér turned out to be a psychopath," I joked, pouring myself another glass of champagne. "I like this."

"I thought you didn't have the taste for champagne," You said.

"Usually I don't. But this one is different."

You nodded, watching the fire with a glaze over your eyes. I looked at you for a second, swirling my glass.

"Is something bothering you, Sherlock?"

"Yes." You tapped your chin, setting you glass on the side table and leaning down onto your elbows. "I should have listened to you."

"Yes, you should've," I replied, matter-of-factly. I took a sip of my glass, still watching you. It wasn't often that you made the effort to compliment an "ordinary" person, much less me. Something was up.

"I should have solved it faster. Should have been more careful, cut more losses." You continued.

Losses. I sighed, setting my own glass down as well. "There was no way you could have saved him, Sherlock. It was Lecuyér's last desperate kick to the teeth. You couldn't just deduce that away."

"I know." You touched your forehead. "But I should've been able to."

"I guess this means the 'casual chatting' is over, then."

"John."

You slowly rose from your chair, creeping over to mine and sitting down beside my knee. You held eye contact with me, your ice eyes unwavering.

A nervous smile crossed my face. "You're really torn up about this, aren't you."

"You always stayed with me on my danger nights. When my brother thought I might go back to my drug habit, he would send you a text and you would keep a close eye on me until the danger night ended. You never told me that, but I know my brother's methods. He's done it before, with various people. But he never did it himself. He didn't want me to harm myself, but he never had the care or the sentiment to watch over me personally."

"Mycroft set you up to do this, didn't he."

"Molly, actually. Said we should talk."

"Sherlock, you don't have to give me any kind of dramatic apology. I don't blame you."

"This is your danger night, John. Every day since you took that poison has been your danger night. You were suffering, and it was my job to keep you close and stop you. Keep you from harming yourself. But I didn't realize it until you picked up the gun."

"Really, Sherlock, stop with the metaphors."

"John, I'm sorry."

My throat tightened.

"I'm sorry for failing to keep you safe during your danger night. I'm sorry for not being by your side like you were always beside mine. I'm sorry I couldn't keep you healthy. I'm sorry I couldn't find you in time. I'm sorry I couldn't save your father."

"Sherlock..."

"Just promise me, John. Promise me one thing." You grasped my knee. "Don't leave me. I know that you're still suffering, I know you're still weak. And I can't stop it. I can't stop you from suffering. I know I'm worthless in that regard, but listen. Even if I can't save you, let me help you, in whatever meager way I can. Just, _don't leave me_."

"I-"

"It's strange for me, too, being _helpless_." You almost choked on the word. "But I swear that I will do everything that I can to help you."

"Sherlock, why are you saying this."

"I just..." You bent your head, your voice barely above a whisper. "If you die, I couldn't forgive myself."

Tears in my eyes, I slid onto the floor in front of you. I put my hands gently on your arms, and you fell forward slightly, laying your head against my chest. I stroked your hair, pulling your close. You trembled, wrestling with your guilt and mounting frustration. You felt weak, helpless. You felt like you could do nothing. It was painful. You were completely and utterly convinced that you had done nothing but hinder me, that you had only made matters worse. You felt as if you had caused my pain with your weakness in the face of hardship. You were confused and angry, blaming things that were under no control of yours on yourself. And it broke my heart.

* * *

Sherlock, what I'm trying to say in all this is that you are completely and entirely wrong.

In all your danger nights, in all your hardships, I stayed with you because I loved you. I loved you, even if I wouldn't admit it, and I was prepared to do anything for you. You brought me out of my loneliness and my hopelessness. I had settled into an ugly muck of daily life, of swirling habits and days that passed by without meaning. You introduced me to your world, to your passions, to yourself. Immediately I was entrapped.

Even after your supposed death, I was entrapped. I couldn't let you go. I spiraled, digging deep down into the emptiness of life without Sherlock Holmes. I was lost, every day without you I was lost. I had no purpose, no meaning, no goals, no hopes or dreams without you with me. I didn't understand it at the time - I thought it was just my feelings playing tricks on me, my emotions taking advantage of my grief.

It wasn't. You were the reason I was still alive, even when you had left. I kept living, moving, breathing in my pool of nothingness, grasping out at the sliver of a chance that you might still be there with me. I lived because of you, because of the legacy you left for me, because of the pain in your voice when you said goodbye. Because you loved me once. And if you loved me, then the only thing that tied me back to you was myself.

I hope that this narrative helps you see just how much you matter to me. You're not worthless, not at all. You are the reason I'm still alive, even if it's hard for you to believe. My survival has revolved around you time and time again. The reason I made it through the suicide ward was because of you. The reason all of this didn't end in the massacre of my entire family was all because of you. You didn't fail, Sherlock. There were losses, definite losses, and I miss my father terribly. But that does not mean that you are worthless, and that does not mean that you have failed me in any way.

I hope that in reading this, in seeing yourself through my eyes, you will find the final proof that you need to finally believe what I've told you all along. How much I need you, and how desperately I love you. And I hope that you never doubt it again. Even though we will both will struggle with various things, even if at times you make mistakes and at times I make you make mistakes. You will always be the hero of my story, and I will always be beside you, standing strong if for no other reason than to love you for the rest of my days. After all, what would a blogger be without his detective?

All my love to you, Sherlock Holmes.

John


	36. Author's Note

Well, Asphyxia's come to a close. I didn't think I had it in me to finish a novel in just a little over a month, but I guess there are surprises everywhere, huh?

I wanted to say thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favorited this, you guys all my my life a little bit happier and I'm so glad you guys found as much enjoyment in this as I did. It really was a joy to write, trying to work in all the different plot points to deliver a satisfying ending. Maybe not everything was as professional as I would've wanted it, but I'm pleased with the way it turned out as a whole, and I hope you are too.

For you guys who have seen this through to the end, I would absolutely love it if you would leave me a review telling me how Asphyxia affected you, what you liked and didn't like about it in general, and things that I could do to improve in the second draft. I really want to hear from you, I read every review and I love hearing from you guys. It's my goal to improve my writing and to make both Doyle and Gatiss proud with my interpretation of Sherlock and John. You would help me out immensely if you told me how I did.

Sometime in the near future I will be working on a second draft for Asphyxia. There are some extra twists and turns that I wanted to include but either didn't have the opportunity to work in, or didn't have the time to flesh out properly before writing. Those will be included in the second draft, alongside the improvement of the writing and general style of the piece. I'll be using reviews and tips from my readers in the second draft, so if there's anything you wish was developed more or you would like to see expanded on, _please_ leave me a note.

I'll be leaving the completed novel up for a few weeks, possibly a month, while I compose the second draft outline and get everything ready for writing again. That way if anyone hasn't quite finished, or if new readers are interested, they can finish reading it before I take it down to replace it with the second draft.

Currently I _am_ considering writing a sequel to Asphyxia, but I haven't made any major decisions. Of course, the second draft of Asphyxia comes first. When I do make a decision, yay or nay, I'll post it to my profile page. In the meantime, I'll be taking a little break from serial writing (my brain is a little friend from pumping out 2,000 words a day, as you can imagine) and I'm planning to work on a few Sherlockian short stories in my lazy days. If you're interested in keeping up with my writing, follow me. You'd absolutely make my day.

Thank you again for all the feedback! I can't tell you how much all you guys' well-wishes mean to me. Please keep writing, keep reading, and keep obsessing over Sherlock. I do love knowing I'm not the only one doing so.

Have a great weekend. :)

.

Shironette


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